


Teddy Bears and Butterflies

by menaraline



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Alpha Stephen Strange, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Break Up, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Former Dysfunctional Relationship, Former Stony, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor MPreg, Minor Stucky, Minor Violence, Omega Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-05-20 04:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14887505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menaraline/pseuds/menaraline
Summary: Of course it would be at a Starbucks of all places that Tony Stark would be dumped by his boyfriend of seven years for another omega.How unfortunate then, that at that same Starbucks, he would meet the coffee-hating neurosurgeon Stephen Strange who just so happened to have a dog that loved Puppuccinos.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched _Avengers: Infinity War_ and fell headfirst into IronStrange. I’ve loved both the MCU character Doctor Strange and the film _Doctor Strange_ for quite some time, so I was very excited to write this fic. Also, there is a tragic lack of ABO IronStrange fanfiction, and someone needs to fix that. This is my first Marvel fanfic, and therefore, this is also my first time writing this ship and these characters, so I apologize if there are any inconsistencies. I don’t write fluffy, nice fanfics very often, but IronStrange is simply so amazingly sweet and amazing in the film that I couldn’t stop myself. 
> 
> Please review the tags before you read! There is some minor Stucky and former Stony in this fanfic as mentioned in the tags. The former dysfunctional relationship being referred to is, of course, the former Stony relationship. Mpreg—while part of the ABO world and, consequently, does shape things in the story—is minor and will not play a key role in the plot. There will be no intentional character bashing in this fanfic since I love pretty much all of the characters in the MCU; it should be noted, however, that the story is through one character’s perspective—Tony’s—so what you’re getting is quite limited and, therefore, to a degree unreliable. :) 
> 
> That all being said, I hope you enjoy this fanfic. <3 
> 
> This fic is betaed by my fantastic friend, [EmberGlows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmberGlows/pseuds/EmberGlows).

It was at a Starbucks on Sixth Avenue that Steve Rogers and Tony Stark broke up for the last time.

Of course, that wasn’t nearly specific enough, because there was a shocking number of Starbucks coffeehouses lining up on Sixth Avenue—well, not really shocking, because if there wasn’t a Starbucks on every goddamn corner in the city possible, was it _really_ Manhattan? Still, it was completely obscene. And only recently, the company had made its intentions clear to open its first store in Wakanda. Absolutely fucking incredible, really.

But, a digression was a digression. A coffee shop was perhaps the most cliche place for a breakup to happen, and it was also perhaps the worst considering just how high-profile both Steve and Tony were, but Steve didn't seem to take that into account when choosing a venue for the innocuous “coffee date” that he had mentioned in the painfully and uncharacteristically formal text he sent him. Tony half-believed that Steve was probably just following the advice written in some dating site because the entire event was so generic and by the books that it was almost intolerable.

And, this was by far the most underwhelming separation they had. Most of their breakups—and there were countless to compare to—were messy and dramatic. They were passionate and angry, not unlike uncontrollable and destructive wildfire that burnt down everything in its path. But, if those breakups could be compared to living, breathing, malicious flames, this one was like a fire that was completely and utterly doused down—it was cool, awkward, and silent. _Very_ silent. And when it wasn’t painfully quiet, there were only Steve’s non-apologies and empty platitudes filling the stillness of the air, which was infinitely worse.

This, Tony realized, was it. The passion was dead. The decision was made. This breakup, this breakup that was happening in Starbucks of all fucking places, was less explosive than any of their other messy separations, and, strangely enough, that was what made it unbearable. Because this uncomfortable calmness lent a finality to this breakup that all the others lacked. There was a suffocating feeling in the atmosphere that was impossible to ignore; they each knew that this would be their final parting as a couple, that there was no going back from this. And so, there was no yelling, no crying, just coolness and numbness and regret and mourning all that they wish they could say but chose not to because, well, what was the point?

It was Steve who made the final call, who made the ultimate decision to end everything that they had. Which, granted, wasn’t much by this point, but still. It was fucking humiliating that it would be _him_. Normally it alternated; sometimes it was Steve, yes, but oftentimes it was Tony, swearing that this time, _this time_ , would be it. It never was, of course, because somehow, their breakups never lasted. They were each drawn to each other like moths to flame, and they could never stay away, even if it was better for the both of them if they did.

Occasionally it was Steve who came to him first after the breakup, not with an apology on his lips, but with intent and the belief that ignoring things long enough would be just as effective as actually putting in effort to fix all the problems they had. Tony knew better, he honestly did, but he hungered for Steve, feared that he would lose him if he addressed the elephant in the room, and the idea alone left him insecure and scared. He despised himself for it. And so, when Steve came to him after breakups, nothing of importance was addressed and the encounters often ended up with Steve fucking him on the couch of his penthouse, his alpha-rich scent flooding the air and making Tony _keen_. And then the relationship would resume the next day as though nothing went wrong when things clearly _did_ , with Tony hating himself for not standing up for himself.

But, more often, it was Tony who went to Steve, begging, crying for another chance— _pathetic,_ Tony thought in hindsight, _so, so pathetic_ —on his fucking hands and knees, drunk off his mind, before Steve would inevitably swoop down, pushing him to the floor with a kiss, smooth and skilled, talented but not overwhelming. But always, _always_ , no matter who came back to whom first, it seemed that Tony was on the humiliating end of these messy encounters, losing all of his dignity or whatever remained of it each time.

And so, it was a cruel joke of the world, God, fate, _whatever_ , that Steve was the one who ended things. It wasn’t a final “no, this is enough” on Tony’s part, not him _finally_ fucking standing up for himself by taking the reins and putting an end to this dysfunctional mess of a relationship. No, it was only Steve with a regretful but firm smile on his ridiculously handsome face—youthful but masculine, painfully attractive, the perfect American boy from Brooklyn—saying, “Hey, Tony—”

And with that, Tony’s world crumbled beneath his feet. Had he possessed the strength, he might have pleaded. But he didn’t, which was perhaps a very good thing. In this moment, all he could feel was numb. No pain. No sorrow. No anguish. Nothing.

They would come later, Tony assured himself. They always did. So right now he should appreciate the numbness while it lasted. Before the floodgates opened and he was swept away by the tide.

“Tony,” Steve said, clearly expecting him to say something, to yell, to _do_ something. As Tony always did. But Tony felt nothing, could only stare at the white teddy bear in his latte—baristas at Starbucks didn’t do latte art often, the place was too standardized and efficient, the milk automatically steamed and unable to make the right kind of foam, but this barista did by some goddamn miracle, and she had asked him cheerfully, “butterfly or teddy bear”. Tony didn’t really have an answer in mind, so he’d picked randomly.

Now the bear’s beady, unsettling eyes were mocking him for his choice from the surface of his drink.

“I would ask you to tell me why,” Tony said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. He was almost successful. “But I think I already know. Forty-seven—it’s almost too late, isn’t it?”

At that, Steve flinched. But he sounded vehement as he said, “Tony, when we first met,  I was young and stupid. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do with my life. But now, I have things that I need to do, things I _want_ to do—”

“But you can’t do them. At least, not with me.” There was something dry to Tony’s voice.

There was regret, but no hesitation when Steve said, “No. I wish I could.”

 _Your wishes mean fucking nothing_ , Tony wanted to spit out. _I told you, I_ warned _you, when we first met, but did you listen? And now here we fucking are._

“Alright. Fine. Okay.” Tony couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes. His gaze lowered to his drink, where the bear stared back, looking particularly, viciously pleased. Sadistic fuck. He should have picked the butterfly.

“Are you okay?” Steve actually had the audacity to sound concerned. Tony laughed, and Steve flinched.

“Are you really asking me that?” Tony raised his eyes, and, dear God, those baby-blues. How could anyone say no to them? Steve had the ability to look liked a kicked puppy at the worst of times, able to extract guilt or sympathy from even the most impenetrable of souls. But Tony couldn’t let this happen again. He couldn’t fall in, because once he did, he wouldn’t get out. So, he hardened his heart and met Steve’s eyes, unyielding.

“I still worry about—”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna hear it.” At this, Tony stood up. His voice was even, surprisingly so, as he said, “Anyway, I have a board meeting in about an hour, so I should be heading off now. You know New York traffic.” He picked up his latte. It was still warm in his hands. “Well, I’m off. I hope you have a good celebration with your friends; they’re gonna be ecstatic, even if they pretend not to be in front of you. And I hope you get that white picket fence and the dog—a golden retriever, I know you—and those two point five kids you’ve always dreamt of. God knows you’ve been eying Clint enviously long enough. Shoulda known the first time that happened, really.”

“Tony—” Steve began, sounding pained.

“And I’ll have one of my guys bring your stuff back to you from my place. So no awkward meet-and-greets there. Don’t worry, I have all the bases covered. Well. I’m heading out. Enjoy your coffee.”

And all that Tony could cherish was the brief instance of surprise on Steve’s face as he abruptly walked towards the exit, taking hold of the metal handle and swinging open the moderately heavy glass door of the place to leave. But any the pleasure he felt was brief and short. It was weak at best, because what he did was less of a “finally I stood up for myself” and more of a “hey at least I didn’t beg this time”. Then, the bitterness settled in. Clearly, Steve was expecting for it to be harder, that Tony _would_ actually plead for him to stay. Fuck that.

The air outside was chillier than it was in Starbucks—it was May, but it would only reach sixty degrees Fahrenheit tops today. Tomorrow it would be eighty. New York was unpredictable and capricious with its weather when it began to approach summer.

Steve didn’t chase after him, which Tony was initially grateful for. But, that didn’t last either. An acid burned through Tony’s veins, because of course Steve wouldn’t do that. It was always Tony demeaning himself to maintain their shithole of a relationship. All Steve had to do was give him _that_ look with _that_ smile and Tony’s heart would soften.

Parking in New York was awful, but all Tony had to do was dial Happy and the car would be just around the corner. One of the benefits to being a billionaire, he supposed. And it was a very good thing that the car came so quickly, because it was only when he slid in and settled on the passenger seat that the numbness dissipated and all the emotions, all the sadness and anger and grief, came surging forward. Tony felt his hands shake, misery overwhelming all of his senses. He only realized he was crying when he saw a single teardrop destroy the teddy bear—which hadn’t even sunk yet despite the fact that it _should_ by now, the stubborn asshole—in his latte. The bear’s face was distorted horrendously, its two eyes separating in a horrific fashion and its disgustingly round face was disintegrating almost grotesquely to accommodate the salt-water tear tainting the drink. Served the bastard right.

Tony’s body was trembling. He could feel his world ending.

 _That’s it, huh,_ he thought, closing his eyes and letting despair wash over him.

* * *

 

Of course, Natasha would be the first to contact him.

“I heard that you two broke up,” she said over the phone, and immediately, Tony wished that he had let his secretary take the call.

“Of course you heard,” Tony said dryly, leaning against one of the walls in his penthouse suite at the top of Stark Tower. It was night in New York, but, as it was the city that never slept, bright golden lights lit up skyscrapers and the traffic-packed highways below. “You always do.”

“Not my fault that you two broke up in a Starbucks,” Natasha said. “The paps are going wild, you know. It’s not very often that the best paid actor in Hollywood and the head of the largest tech multi-industry company in the world split up in a coffeehouse at Sixth Avenue.” Her voice lowering, she asked, “What were you thinking?”

“What was _I_ thinking?” Tony repeated, growing more pissed by the second. He thought of the vodka he kept in his cabinet, a gift from a colleague from Russia, and immediately stifled the thought. Eighteen days, he reminded himself. He had refrained for eighteen days, and that was a fucking record. “Ask your _friend_ Steve that. He was the one who arranged it to happen there.”

“And he held you at gunpoint to do it, then? _Of course_ it’s all his fault; it’s not like you’re a doormat when it comes to him—”

A _doormat?_ Tony seethed. “Don’t act like you understand me when you don’t, Natasha.” He had to stop himself from calling her ‘Nat’. Such informalities didn’t exist between them, not anymore.

“No, I understand that you’re eating yourself alive right now, and I worry—”

“Oh, I’m sure you feel real bad.” Sarcasm was heavy in his voice. “And, mind you, I was doing just dandy before you called. You might have just dampened my mood though, so thanks for that.”

“And you have not been thinking about drinking at all since you got home, I’m sure.” Natasha, rather than being accusatory, sounded certain of herself, as though she was stating a well-known fact rather than an observation or guess. And anything that remained of Tony’s humor immediately diminished.

“Alright. I’m hanging up.”

“I care for _both_ of you, Tony.” Hilariously enough, it sounded as though she actually believed her own words. But she was a seasoned liar, and he wasn’t going to fall for her deceit—whether to him or herself—any longer.

“Nope. You’ve always been biased; every decision you’ve made, every piece of advice you gave me, it was all for Steve’s benefit. Even when you tried to convince Steve during some of the fights we had that maybe, just maybe, _he_ was wrong, you were thinking about him. Never me.” Then, with bitterness, Tony said, “And that’s fine. That’s fucking fine; you’re under no obligation to defend me or help me or actually care about me. But don’t pretend that you’re my friend, Natasha, when you’re not. You’ve haven’t been on my side from the very start, even when you pretended you were.”

“What I’ve done was not for Steve’s benefit, but for what I thought _both_ of you needed. I was acting on my own conscience; what you did with Steve, it wasn’t right. But what Steve did wasn’t good either.”

“Ah, your _conscience_!” Tony said sarcastically. “Well, if you’re following your _conscience_ , why are you talking to me? Because your _conscience_ always leads you back to Steve, doesn’t it? Very convenient, that is.”

And, finally, Natasha’s voice went cold. “Get over yourself, Stark. If you ever stop wallowing in your self-pity, your narcissism, and your over-inflated ego, you’d realize that you hurt Steve too.” She actually sounded affronted. Good.

But something in her voice—perhaps it was the alpha-quality to it—made Tony flinch for a brief second, momentarily cowed. Still, he recovered quickly. Tony sneered, defiant, “Did I? You better go comfort him then, for the sake of your conscience.”

And here, Natasha actually hung up on him. Tony expected some satisfaction from this, from getting the last word _and_ angering Natasha, but felt none. His sorrow just came right back, perhaps even worse than before. He felt lonelier than ever.

 _It’s fine_ , he told himself, eyeing that cabinet again before he realized what he was doing. He forcibly turned his eyes away. It took more effort than he liked to have admit. _It’s fine._

* * *

 

Natasha was right about one thing, the press was _insatiable_. They smelled a story, and they wanted every juicy detail of it. After all, this would be perfect for their clickbait articles and desperate tabloids. But thankfully, Tony had a good staff, and the only thing he had released by them was a generic statement of him being “regretful” in regards to the breakup and that he “wanted privacy to deal with this difficult time”. It was standard and impersonal, clearly something written by his PR team, so of course the press would not be satisfied by it.

People didn’t care much about him, for the most part. Well, that wasn’t true; he was a billionaire and he had quite the following on his social media accounts. But he was not nearly as adored as Steve Rogers was; Steve Rogers, the gorgeous actor with the sunny smile, a charming heartthrob that was impossible to hate. He was the guy—both as the characters he played in films and as the man he pretended to be in interviews—that alphas wanted to be like, that omegas desired. Steve was what people watched in movies— _popular_ movies. Tony—the _omega_ —was the person most people saw only when they briefly glanced at business magazines on racks in doctor offices. He was admired, undoubtedly, as both a genius and a billionaire, but he was not _loved_ as Steve was. Steve, being a popular actor, appealed to a much wider audience, and so, public support was thrown mostly his way.

Tony was startled out of his thoughts by a low curse coming from beside him. He turned his head to see Rhodey, who was sitting right next to him, furiously swiping his thumb up the screen of his phone. Rhodey had come to Tony’s suite last night, not very long after Natasha’s call actually, very likely having heard the news. But, he didn’t pry and he certainly didn’t ask more than what Tony was comfortable with answering, and Tony was grateful for his friend’s company. Now the two of them were seated beside each other on the luxurious couch in Tony’s living room. Tony couldn't see what was on Rhodey’s screen clearly in spite of the close proximity, but it looked like a lot of text—some news article, maybe?

“These people don’t know you, and they sure as _hell_ don’t know Steve Rogers,” Rhodey said suddenly, sounding disgusted. “Don’t listen to them.”

Ah. So _that_ was what he was looking at.

“I’m not,” Tony said. “Didn’t even look at a single tabloid yet.” Almost conversationally, he asked, “What are they calling me now? An attention-seeker? A leech? A cradle-robber? I would suggest a gold-digger, but that would be an insult that would be more effective against Steve, and people love him too much to suggest it.” Then, he snapped his fingers. “Aha, I got it. _A too-old-to-have-kids omega who was a deadweight to Steve Rogers' career and finally_ — _and rightfully_ — _got dumped_. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it?” When Rhodey didn’t immediately answer, Tony went on, “Well? Don’t leave me in suspense, how close am I?

While he was speaking, Rhodey lowered his cell phone. He was now giving Tony his full attention, his eyes hard.

“Tony, you’re _none_ of those things. Your net worth is in the billions; Rogers' is in the millions—if anyone is the leech or the gold-digger in your relationship, it certainly wouldn’t be you.” He spoke with absolute certainty. “And, not only did you two meet when you two were both well into adulthood, the age difference isn’t nearly as bad as people think it is; you know how they love to exaggerate. Also, attention seeker? _You?_ You love your theatrics, but the last thing you would do is use your break-up to garner pity from others. In fact, you’re the opposite in that regard. Speaking of—” The hardness of his eyes seemed to soften slightly. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me. You’re hurting.”

“Nah,” Tony said, but he couldn’t meet Rhodey’s gaze. “It’s as you told me countless times. There was only one direction my relationship with Steve was going to go, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be up. I would have to be ignorant and stupid to be surprised by how it ended, right?”

It was impossible to mask how his voice trembled by the end of his statement. And Rhodey immediately put his phone down on the table, face-down.

“Tony—”

“I’m fine,” Tony insisted, bringing a hand up to his face when he realized his eyes were beginning to burn again. Oh dear. He couldn’t let Rhodey see that.

But of course Rhodey did, and he found himself enveloped in warm, gentle arms. He shut his eyes and, touch-starved, leaned into the embrace.

“It’s not your fault,” Rhodey said firmly. “Tony, what you had with him was unhealthy, but it wasn’t because of you. Rogers, whether intentionally or not, almost _ruined_ you; he stretched you thin at every corner, and he tore you to shreds time and time again. It was painful to watch. Rogers wouldn’t recognize accountability if it was right before his eyes, even though he should because he was a soldier, and you _learn_ accountability when you’re a soldier. I know that because I’m a military man, just like he was.” His dark eyes were filled with certainty when he said, “He’s stubborn, and he’s selfish. Impossible to compromise with. You always deserved better.”

“But I _wanted_ him,” Tony said, voice hoarse. He could feel his body begin to shake, his _hands_ shake. “I _still_ want him.”

Rhodey tensed, but only briefly.

“For now,” he agreed. He was warm against Tony. “But all wounds heal, including broken hearts. You will come out of this stronger than before. And you always have been strong, even if you don’t think you are.”

But he’s incorrect because Tony _wasn’t_ strong. Even now, even in this moment, with a warm body pressed tightly against his, he was thinking of Steve, and he hated himself for it. But he couldn’t help it. Steve was broad and tall in build, while Rhodey’s body was noticeably leaner and smaller. Steve’s distinctly sharp, alpha scent that made Tony _want_ was distinctly different from the subtle, comforting smell of beta wafting from Rhodey’s dark skin. And Tony thought of how Steve must be feeling; mournful and grieving undoubtedly, but perhaps relieved as well. And even if he wasn’t, he was in the company of friends who were pleased that he made the right decision. Who were pleased that Tony was out of his life.

Yes, Tony was aware that Steve’s friends liked him just as much as Rhodey liked Steve. Which was, incidentally, not much at all. Sam and Clint were fine, perhaps a little wary, with him at first, but as the relationship between Steve and Tony became more and more volatile and chaotic, they grew to despise him, clearly blaming him for the dysfunctionality of it all. Wanda _hated_ him, but she always did. She had a long-seated grudge against him when his company plunged her family into debt—it was a long, complicated story, and one that he felt very guilty about in spite of the fact that he wasn’t directly involved—but even after he forgave the loans, she never forgave him (it didn’t stop her from sticking her tongue down the throat of Tony’s several-times-removed cousin Vision, though).

And Bucky. Well, Tony didn’t know him very well because, despite being a childhood friend of Steve, he’d only come back to New York a few months ago. They didn’t talk much, he and Bucky, mostly because Bucky was too busy clinging to Steve to have decent conversations with any other person. Seemed nervous and skittish most of the time. Had a prosthetic left arm for reasons Tony was unsure of. Flinched a lot. Couldn’t even meet Tony’s eyes. Steve said he went through some traumatic shit, and that he wasn’t like this before.

But, despite knowing this, Tony had been jealous of their friendship. It was selfish and disgusting, he knew, to be bitter towards someone who obviously didn’t deserve it. And yet, Tony couldn’t stop ugly feelings from surfacing when he saw the timid, doe-eyed omega cling to _his_ Steve. Once, when he drank one too many beers, he had brought it up with him. And that was the first and last time he did that, because he had never seen Steve so fucking _angry_. It was then that Tony learned that Steve could tolerate many things, but tolerated little when it came to Bucky.

Tony had wondered, sometimes, if Steve ever had such an emotional response to him. He tried not to think too much of it, because he doubted he would like the answer.

And, in Rhodey’s arms, he could imagine Steve, right now, being surrounded and comforted by all of these people. All of these people who hated Tony, and had almost certainly _asked_ Steve multiple times to reconsider the relationship they’d shared. Steve was stubborn, painfully so sometimes, and he didn’t give into pressure very easily. That meant it was unlikely that his friends were what convinced him to finally jump ship (or jump off a sinking ship, to be more accurate). But still, he did as they wanted, and while it was not likely because of them, they must be over the fucking moon with glee right now.

And look at Tony, in comparison. Clinging to the only friend he probably had—other than Happy, of course, but Happy worked for him so it was different—and still thinking pathetically about his ex who dumped him. Had he always been this weak?

He must have said that aloud, because Rhodey’s arms tightened around him.

“Weak?” Rhodey’s voice seemed to vibrate against his chest. “Tony. You were never weak. You still aren’t. You’ve been dragged through the mud, beaten to a pulp, and treated terribly by the alpha you loved. But you’re a fighter, a warrior. It’s natural that such treatment would affect you, but I know you’ll get back on your feet again.”

Tony thought of Steve’s dazzling smile, and he wished he could believe him.

* * *

 

The worst thing, perhaps, of being the ex of a celebrity like Steve Rogers was that it was impossible to avoid him. Not only in his own home—which he hadn’t yet cleaned out yet, though he should, he _would_ , just not now—but also outside. All the press wanted to talk about with him was their breakup. They barely asked him about the new high-end tech his conglomerate was developing, and they pretty much ignored the charities and fundraisers he was currently involved in. None of that stuff.

All they cared about was the fact that heartthrob actor Steve Rogers dumped him, and they wanted to know _why_.

After all, Steve, to his credit, was almost as vague as Tony was when it came to explaining the breakup. He made it clear that he was the one who ended it, of course, which alone sparked a great deal of talk. But he asked his “loving fans” to let him “heal in privacy and in his own time”. And his fans immediately capitulated, sending crooning messages over Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram expressing their sympathy—and, for some of the more delusional ones, hopes that they now had a chance with him.

But, they certainly showed no submission when it came to Tony. His social media pages were filled to the brim with furious comments and death threats from Steve’s most ardent fans who, after not being told a satisfying reason for Tony and Steve’s breakup, seemed to have come to their own conclusions as to why they split. And of course, none these brilliantly reasoned hypotheses were in his favor. Had Tony read one of the hateful comments, he might even have been impressed with the level of the fans’ passion. But he didn’t, and he, at Rhodey’s suggestion, smartly turned his notifications off and took a break from all of his social media accounts. By doing so, he hoped to not only escape Steve’s insane admirers, but also Steve himself.

But that was naive, because Steve was everywhere. Tony hadn’t realized it so much when he was still dating him, but now what he was actively trying to forget him… well, he came to the painful realization that Steve Rogers was quite literally impossible to avoid. In the ads on TV he drove in sleek black cars (Lexus, Hyundai, Ford, Nissan) that, in reality, he would never be caught in, and raced across perilous mountainous roads. On the internet, his name had been trending even before the breakup, and pictures of him were difficult to steer clear of, especially considering that the new movie he starred in (an action blockbuster that mostly—though not exclusively—alphas enjoyed) just came out in American theaters. Even worse was the fact that it was actually a _good_ movie—and a popular one, judging by its box office sales—so there were loads of reviews, images, articles, and posts about it. Which was good for Steve but not very good for Tony, who was trying his best to get him out of his mind. But it seemed to be just as impossible to escape him as it was to _forget_ about him, even though he desperately wished he could do both.

Rhodey suggested he reserve time for himself so that he could heal. But it was hard to stay in his suite and curl up in his blankets as he wished because he knew the world was turning, and it would continue to turn with or without him. Tony could not grow lax no matter how secure his position seemed at the moment. He’d seen businesses fall, and he did not intend his own to be one of them. He was a businessman first and foremost, and he couldn’t cancel his many meetings and golf games with potential business partners because of one breakup.

Moreover, Tony was an omega in a sphere where alphas dominated. Being an omega in the high position that he was in, he had always been underestimated and doubted. Rivals imagined him to be too emotional, too submissive for the task at hand. Tony proved them all wrong, and he didn’t plan to show them otherwise.

And so, he went to a dinner party held in the top floor of the hotel some rich CEO owned in Midtown, smile plastered on his face and feigned arrogance lifting his features. As always, he was the life of the party. “Yeah, we broke up,” he had said, deceptively good-humored, to a small group of people he was entertaining. “But perhaps it was meant to be—after all, that terrible Yankees loss last night was surely representative of something larger.” This elicited chuckles from his listeners. Most of them were insincere, but the head of a large pharmaceutical company’s wasn’t. That was because he was a fan, and he was also, incidentally, the one individual in the room that Tony hoped to impress tonight.

Never let it be said that Tony didn’t do his research.

After being told by said man that they would keep in touch, Tony, having succeeded in his task for the night, excused himself to get himself some hors d'oeuvres. There was a limit to how much superficialness he could take from these businessmen and socialites, and he was just about there. Upon finally separating himself from the other partygoers, his eyes almost instinctively trailed to the bottles of insanely expensive wine that were being served, his throat suddenly feeling quite dry. But, after internally scolding himself, he turned back to where the food was. It was a more difficult task than he would have liked.

But before he could actually look at his options in terms of dining, a sudden voice came from over his shoulder, startling him.

“Congratulations on your success.”

It was soft and accented—polite. And when Tony turned around, it was to face a man with neatly combed brown hair and dark, intense eyes. There was a glass of champagne in his hand. He looked harmless, but there was a dangerous edge to him. There was a sharpness to his gaze that not many had. It was unsettling.

But just as interesting was the fact that this man was an omega. And there was no alpha at his shoulder, no possessive hands at his waist or arm; he was alone, which meant that he, very likely, came alone. Tony perked up in interest; not many omegas were important in the corporate world, let alone successful enough to be _here._

“Well, thank you,” Tony said, keeping his voice amiable in spite of the warning bells ringing in his head. It was rare to find someone like him here, after all.

“Mr. Stark, correct?” the man asked. Tony struggled to pinpoint his accent—Eastern or Southeastern European, by the sound of it. “I’m a big fan. Not many, and certainly not many like me and you, are able to achieve what you have.”

“Well, if you’re here, you must have accomplished no minor feat either,” Tony said mildly. “Not everyone gets an invite.”

“No, Mr. Stark,” he said, a knowing smile curling his lips. “I am a man of very few accomplishments. You see, it seems as though honor is a foreign concept in business, a fact that I have always understood but did not realize the extent of until only recently. Those who are the most successful, after all, have the least of it.”

Then, Tony’s eyes narrowed. _That_ was almost definitely directed at him. “I’m sorry—who are you, exactly?”

“Oh, I’m not here to talk about me. Let’s talk about you.” The man’s eyes glinted. “Acquiring smaller companies in merciless ways—you’re very shrewd, ambitious.” He took a sip of his champagne. Tony’s eyes immediately centered on the sparkling golden liquid within the glass, trailing down the stem almost yearningly. Then, he looked away.

Twenty-three days.

The man took his silence as a sign to continue speaking.

“Yes, very successful,” the omega said. Then, smoothly: “I heard the news, and I’m sorry.”

Tony had to stop himself from tensing. Most people he had talked to here were practically trained to not offend those they wanted to impress, so they skirted around the topic of his breakup, even though it was clear that they were just as curious about it as the general public was. They cleverly tried to lead the conversation into that direction, hoping that Tony would take the bait, but Tony saw through their attempts easily and smoothly derailed them. This man, with his straightforwardness, didn’t give him that option. “I wasn’t aware that it was any of your business,” he said evenly but sternly.

“Ah, but it’s not very often that this sort of thing happens,” he said, ignoring Tony’s clear reluctance in talking about this topic. “People had thought your relationship perfect, you know. It’s humbling to know that even seemingly star-crossed lovers have imperfections that they hide from the public eye. How nice to find a flaw.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “I’m glad you find pleasure in it.”

“Oh, but I do,” the omega purred. Then, tilting his head to the side, he said, “You’ve built quite the corporate empire, Mr. Stark. Even more impressive is how even now that you’re at the very top, with your company spread wide and far across the globe, you still want _more_. Your greed—it must be insatiable!” His voice hardened. “My family’s business had been leasing an extremely good location for well over a decade. And yet, we were refused the option of extending or renewing our lease when it ended. Why? Because your company came and wanted that exact location, offering much, much more money than mine ever could. And, after losing the space we had operated in for _years_ , we couldn’t regain our footing. And eventually, we fell out of business.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting here?”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” the man said. “Earlier in our conversation, I expressed admiration for your cleverness and ruthlessness, and I wasn’t being facetious about it. You see, I _respect_ you, Stark. It’s just business, after all, just capitalism—and raw, dog-eat-dog capitalism is more effective than any other economic system could ever hope to be.” He paused before continuing smoothly, “Monopolies may be bad for the economy, but they certainly aren’t bad for _you_. You’re just acting in your self-interest. How could I blame you for that?”

“I’m leaving,” Tony finally said, but the man in front of him raised his hand as though to stop him.

“Don’t. We’re all friends here, right? Celebrating your success.” The omega took another sip of his drink. Then, he said, in an almost conversational tone, “Fun story: my son, Carl, a beautiful boy with a great love for action films that have lots of explosions, had cancer. It was terminal. Do you know what his last wish was? He wanted to meet his hero, his _idol_ , the actor Steve Rogers, who played the protagonist in his favorite movie, just once before he died. We even started a petition online for it.” Then, he looked away, eyes distant. “Do you know what Steve Rogers' staff told us? They said that he was too busy doing reshoots for his movie—the sequel to the film my son loved so, _so_ very much—though he offered his condolences.” His face twisted then. “My child, my _baby boy_ , died only a week after that call. My wife and I—we didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. We said Rogers was coming. The lie destroyed me. But my boy, he was smiling. He was happy. And when he died, he died deceived, adoring a man that, in actually, had callously turned him away.”

“You know what? I’m calling security,” Tony said. “I’m sorry this happened to you, but I’m sensing some crazy vibes—”

“Oh, not yet,” he said. “You’re going to want to hear this. You see, there’s a rumor going around about your ex-lover. Not big enough to explode—Rogers can do a very good job at hiding what he wants to keep secret, despite his Starbucks stunt. But I’ve heard whispers.” He then smiled. “I feel a lot of things for Rogers, but I am, in all honesty, amazed by how cold-hearted he is. I suppose that even if a boy with cancer could not faze him, surely a breakup with a man he’s dated for seven years wouldn’t either.”

“What are you getting at here?” Despite his earlier threat, Tony found his interest piqued.

And it was then that the omega reached into his pocket. Tony froze instinctively, and the man noticed. He smiled.

“I assure you, Mr. Stark, I have no gun or weapon on me,” he said. “I have no particular desire to go to jail just yet.”

And, his hand slid out with a phone in hand. He raised the device and turned it so that Tony could see its screen. Then, he turned it on.

And the first thing Tony saw was a picture of a window. _Steve’s_ window, specifically, that belonged to his residence in the Upper East Side.

“You’re not only a creep, but a stalker too?” Tony said, repulsed. “That’s it.” Then raising his voice: “Secur—”

“Look _closely_ ,” the omega hissed, cutting him off. Tony, in spite of his own logic, did.

And then he froze.

Because Steve Rogers, the alpha who had broken up with him mere _days_ ago, was embracing another man. His powerful, muscular arms were wrapped around him tightly. His and the man’s faces were pressed close—they were kissing.

And Tony could feel his heart go ice-cold, because that man Steve was holding, that man was _Bucky._

“Taken only a few days ago,” the man said, but his voice now sounded distant to Tony’s ears. “Truly, the man is spectacular! Perhaps he is bedding random omegas to get over his grief? Or…” His voice turned conniving. “Has he known this man for a while? What a coincidence, if that was the case—if he broke up with one omega only days before embracing another, one he has been an acquaintance with for quite some time.” Then, smoothly, “I’m sure there’s an explanation, though. Surely, America’s golden boy Steve Rogers would never practice something as immoral as infidelity. _Surely.”_

But Tony was barely hearing him anymore. His body was on autopilot as he turned on his heel and stalked towards the exit.

“Tell Mr. Rogers that Helmut Zemo gives his regards,” the omega called out, a smirk firmly set on his lips.

* * *

 

Happy drove Tony to Steve’s building in Upper East Side without a word—there was a question in his eyes, a clear, _is this really a wise idea, boss?_ that he chose not to voice. Which was good, because Tony wasn’t in the right mind to give a decent answer.

“Stop right over there,” he ordered his bodyguard-turned-chauffeur. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Sir—” Happy began, when his conscience as his friend was finally overcoming his responsibilities as his worker.

“Save it,” Tony barked, uncharacteristically sharp but unable to feel an ounce of regret about it because all his mind was focused on was Steve, and Steve and Bucky, and the friendship they had for months, and how long, how _long?_

And so, he got out of the car and stalked towards the doorstep of the building that Steve had an apartment in, a building that he had come to many times to beg and plead for forgiveness. But not this time.

As he stalked towards the entrance, the doorman, one he didn’t recognize, raised his head, alert. He was well-dressed, as all doormen were in this part of New York, but he was young and clearly new—evident by the way his eyes widened in shock and recognition upon seeing Tony. He was clearly unused to seeing celebrities, in spite of the one that lived in the very building he worked at. “Tony Stark,” he said, voice breathless.

Tony liked his admirers—in spite of how he sometimes doubted that he was even deserving of them—but he found that he couldn’t even feign a smile this time.

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just giving someone a quick visit.” And the doorman, who still seemed a little giddy and starstruck by being in his presence, seemed to dampen down a little, clearly remembering his responsibilities.

“I can’t just let you in, I need—”

Then Tony, with a carefulness that he learned through experience, slid a good few dollar bills—a good few _hundred_ dollar bills; he could feel Benjamin Franklin’s judging eyes on him as he did so—into the doorman’s hand, skillfully doing it so that it was hidden from lens of the security camera trained on his back. The doorman’s eyes widened so much they seemed like they were about to pop from his skull.

“I’m sure you can make me an exception,” Tony said. “I’m here only to return the keys. You’ve seen the news.”

“I—I can send them to Ste—Mr. Rogers myself,” the doorman stammered, still eying the money he was slipped with wanting eyes. He was clearly unused to the amount of money as well. Jesus, what was the management thinking, hiring such inexperienced staff for a luxurious building? “You don’t have to trouble—”

“No, I think I should say a last farewell to him,” Tony said, trying to force in some of his usual charm. He didn’t feel successful, but judging by the way the doorman’s eyes widened in amazement, he guessed he did better than he thought. “Saying a quick ‘adios’ in a Starbucks of all places… what kind of ending is that to a seven year relationship?”

The doorman looked very torn, but, after considerable thought, he stepped away from the door. “Only this once,” he said, sounding uncertain of himself.

“Thanks. I owe ya,” he said. The doorman opened the heavy glass doors for him, and he walked through them into an opulent lobby with pale golden walls, an intricately designed ceiling, and shiny floors. But he wasn’t in the mood to linger and admire the prettiness of it; he had done that enough when he was still with Steve. Instead, he headed straight towards the elevator—which was, as always, attended.

“What floor, sir?” the elevator operator asked. This staff member was one that worked there for a while. Not only had Tony seen her several times when heading up to see Steve, she wasn’t—and never had been—starstruck by him like the doorman was.

“29th,” he said. Not the penthouse, but Steve was all about ‘living like the people’. Or, as like the people one could get in a luxurious Manhattan high-rise building in the Upper East Side.

By the time he reached Steve’s floor, his rage—momentarily dampened by interacting with other people—returned in full force. He left the elevator, and he stalked towards the apartment he had once visited so often—and that was the key word, right? Visited. Despite seven years of a serious, monogamous relationship, it wasn’t enough for either of them to move in together. Not once did they actually share a home.

And that knowledge, coupled with what he’d seen, was what made him, without bothering to even knock, remove the brass key from his pocket and jam it into the keyhole, turning it swiftly. The door unlocked—Steve hadn’t changed the lock yet, then, but he had always been lax and optimistic (to the point of naivety) with the security of his apartment despite being a famous actor, something Tony had constantly been nervous and upset about throughout the duration of their relationship—and he stepped inside...

… Only to meet the shocked, enormous pale blue eyes of a tall omega with chin-length dark hair and pale skin standing in the hallway.

Tony himself drew back in surprise. Well, he was not expecting _this_. Because in lieu of Steve, whom he had been prepared to meet, was James Buchanan Barnes, or ‘Bucky’, as Steve had introduced him as those months ago. He was broader—not fatter, but more muscular—than he was the last time Tony saw him, though the last time Tony saw him was, admittedly, quite a while ago. Bucky seemed healthier now—more color to his skin, brighter eyes. Less… scowl-ly; didn’t look like he was going to murder him if he got too close.

He was standing in the corridor, clearly having just left the kitchen judging by the plum he was holding in his right hand. Speaking of the corridor, movies tended to show the disarray of post-breakup homes to emphasize the mess that the separation had made of the individuals living in them. If that were true, then Steve must have been quite unaffected by it, because from what Tony could tell, it was neat and tidy, just as it was before. Perhaps even more so. Then again, he could only see very little of his apartment from here.

And Bucky… Bucky was beautiful and perfect in ways that Tony wasn’t, always had been since they first met; hardly any wrinkles, was in his early thirties—a good age for having children if that’s what he wanted (it was what _Steve_ wanted undoubtedly) and was the same age as Steve, unlike Tony who was, dear God, _fourteen_ years older.

But this was old envy. Envy and insecurity that still struck deep, undoubtedly, but it wasn’t anything new. Nothing that particularly made Tony angry on its own (though it added to his already-existing rage now).

Because all Tony could see was the hickeys at his throat, the tousled state of his hair, the smell of sex and alpha and _Steve_ intermingling with his natural omega scent. And, most importantly, the dark red bloody bite at his neck. A mating bite, one that Steve had refused to give to Tony because, in spite of their seven year long relationship, he felt that they weren’t  “ready”. That Bucky, after a handful of months (discounting the first years of their friendship that occurred many, _many_ years ago before a _very_ long separation), somehow deserved, somehow _earned._

It had only been days since they broke up. And Steve was already mated to another omega.

And Tony saw _red._

“Tony...?” Bucky said, still shocked and confused. “Why are you—”

Before he could really think, really, which was fine because he didn’t want to think, he landed a blow, hard, against Bucky’s jaw. His fist hurt from the punch, but it seemed inconsequential compared to the anger he was feeling. Tony wasn’t the most muscular man anymore—was definitely much more fit in his youth and became more slender as he aged—but he was still good at fighting. He trained constantly to keep his body in shape and his skills sharp. And Bucky wasn’t expecting it clearly, and he toppled over, his body hitting the pale wall and the hardwood floor loudly. The plum rolled across the ground, having slipped from his grasp. But Tony, all he felt was anger, and he pulled back his fist to land another punch. Bucky instinctively raised both arms—his organic one and prosthetic one—to protect himself and—

“Tony?! Ton— _get off of him!”_

And Tony felt a grip—two steady, strong hands—coming from behind him to wrap around his torso, firm, pulling him back. He instinctively began to elbow behind him, but to his surprise, the hands released him. He immediately turned around to swing, but instead, a punch landed, hard, at his stomach, leaving him breathless and wheezing, doubling over. And when he looked up, his gaze met Steve’s. Steve, whose handsome face was twisted in fury, horror, anguish, and shock.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Steve snarled. “Breaking into my apartment and attacking my—”

“Your _what_ , Steve?” Tony asked, furious, still trying to regain the air that Steve’s punch stole from him. “Friend? _Omega?”_

“Tony, what happened between us is _over!”_ Steve shouted. “When I ended things with you, I made it clear that our relationship was finished, that this breakup was _it_. Am I not allowed to see other omegas simply because you’re my ex?”

“Your _omega_ ,” Tony spat out, jabbing his finger at Bucky who, was now standing up again, impressively didn’t flinch. He really had changed. “Has been hanging around you for months.”

“And?” And Steve crossed his arms, his powerful, muscular arms, over his broad, hard, lightly tanned chest which was, Tony realized, completely bare other than a cross hanging beneath his collarbones and his dog tags from the army. All he was wearing were gray sweatpants that sat low at his narrow hips.

He also smelled like very much like sex and Bucky. It made Tony _seethe._

“So let me get this straight,” Tony growled. “Bucky has been clinging to you for _months_. And then, suddenly, you break up with me, and just a few days later, you’re mated to _him_. I’d love an explanation, Steve.”

“So you’ve attacked a disabled omega, in his own home, because you’re jealous,” was Steve’s cold, blunt reply.

“In his own home?” Tony repeated, enraged. “He moved in? Must have taken a little more than a few days to do that, Steve, and I don't remember you telling me about it when we were dating. It's actually pretty impressive, considering that we were together for  _seven years_ and we never once moved in together because you thought we didn’t need to, that we should each have our _private space_.”

“Bucky and I initially planned to move in together as _friends_ ,” Steve snapped. “And that’s because Bucky needs me; he feels safe around me.”

“Friends!” Tony sneered. “Oh, I’m sure! And when did your friendship become _this?”_ He gestured to them both wildly. “Just after you broke up with me? Or, maybe, _even before?”_

“I never cheated on you,” Steve growled.

“Really? Wow, this all just sounds very convenient then. Who knew things could fall into place for you so well, _Rogers?”_

“What are you doing here?” Steve finally asked, his expression glacial. “To attack me? Was that your plan?” Then, his eyes narrowing: “I should call the police.”

“I came to return your key, _dipshit_ ,” Tony said coolly. He held the brass key in front of him with two fingers. “And to hear your explanation.”

Steve viciously snatched the key from him, before angrily tossing it onto a small wooden end table that was pressed against a nearby wall. It clattered against the smooth surface loudly—Tony winced from the noise. “My explanation,” he repeated, his eyes gleaming with fury.

“I deserve one.” Tony met his gaze, in spite of how the omega in him cowered. It was both a cliche and a lie to say that he wasn’t controlled by his biology, because he _was_ , he just sometimes had a pretty good hold on it when it was necessary.

Sometimes.

“You deserve _nothing_ ,” Steve hissed, jabbing his index finger harshly at Tony’s chest, right near where his scar was. Tony froze. “Our relationship ended, all strings cut. You have no business in whom I date or see now.”

“I don’t care about what you do _now_ ,” Tony spat, pushing Steve’s finger from his torso. “I care about what you did _then.”_

“ _I told you_ that I didn’t cheat on you. I would _never_ cheat,” Steve snapped. Then, coolly: “Though, if it helps you cope and lie to yourself by painting yourself as a victim in your own mind, you can choose to believe whatever you want. Just try not to make a big fuss in the media— _otherwise,_ your little break-in might end up on the tabloids.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Threatening me, Rogers?”

Steve actually chuckled at that, before darkly saying, “Trust me, it's the kinder alternative to what I _could_ have done to you. It's remarkably easy to get a hold of 911 these days, with emergency calls and all the other handy functions that smartphones have. In fact, the only reason I'm being so _nice_ to you right now is because of the relationship we once shared; think of this as a courtesy to those seven years.” Tony stiffened, outraged, but before he could say anything, Steve asked, voice laced with anger, “Speaking of break-ins, how _were_ you let into the building?”

“I walked myself in, that’s how.”

“The doorman should have stopped you—“ Steve said, then froze, his gaze hardening. “Tony, you’re taking advantage of kids again?”

Tony felt his fists clench. “Jumping to conclusions, I see.”

“We have a new doorman, a young one,” Steve said. “He’s the only one that would have bent to a famous face and—” His lips curled in disgust. “— _Bribery_.”

“Oh please,” Tony snapped. “He was young, but clearly an adult. They don’t allow minors to be doormen, and they certainly wouldn’t hire someone too young to be a competent doorman at _this_ kind of building. And let’s not change the goddamn subject.”

“Right, let’s not change the subject,” Steve said, sneering. “The topic at hand was drifting too inconveniently to the fact that you manipulated your way into a building, broke into my apartment, punched an omega with a prosthetic arm who did absolutely nothing wrong, and believed—and _still_ believe—falsely, that I owed you any explanation at all. Of course, if we were to talk about that, you’d actually have to admit that you’re wrong.”

Now that just pissed Tony off. “In what argument,” he snarled. “Have we had throughout our relationship that you actually took responsibility for your wrongdoings? Countless times _I_ have, but you? Never. Accountability just doesn’t come to you easily, does it? It’s so much easier to ignore things, after all. For example, like how you ignored that kid with cancer that you’d used your staff to turn away because you couldn’t do it yourself!”

“A _what_ with cancer?” Steve looked genuinely taken aback for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

“Does the name _Carl_ ring a bell?” Tony sneered. “I was told that he wanted to see you before he died from cancer—terminal, by the way. But you refused to see him, because you were busy shooting for some movie.”

Steve’s eyes were enormous with shock and horror. “I didn’t even know! My staff—my agent—they didn’t mention any of this to me. I swear it. You know I wouldn't turn down something like that for the world.”

He sounded sincere. And Tony faltered for a moment because Steve was right. No matter how many faults he had, he _wouldn’t_ do something like that; Tony knew him too well. He was soft-hearted when it came to those weaker and more vulnerable than him, _especially_ children. And Steve was quite busy; it wasn’t such a stretch that the people who worked beneath him would turn something down in his stead, deciding for him that he had too much on his plate. Which was a mistake on their ends; Steve would certainly not let them get away with doing this now that he knew about it.

“Okay, fine, _probably_ that wasn’t your fault,” he conceded. Then, his voice lowered in anger, “But that doesn’t excuse what you did to _me.”_

“And what _did_ I do to you?” Steve’s gaze hardened. This angered Tony even further, his ignorance. How did he not know?

“Oh, and that’s just the problem isn’t it? It was what you _didn’t_ do that really shows your true character,” Tony hissed. “ _As I already said,_ you never took responsibility for anything. You liked to avoid addressing problems because you didn’t want to accept that it was _you_ , not me, who made the mistakes. So let’s not bring up convenience of arguments and admitting to being wrong, Mr. I-Only-See-In-Black-And-White, because never have you ever accepted fault for _anything_ hurtful you’ve done to me.”

“If I was so awful,” Steve said, his voice chilled. “Why are you here? You should be celebrating being free from such a _terrible_ relationship, that you’ve begged me to return to countless times after multiple breakups.”

At that, Tony froze. “Sometimes,” he said, bluntly and coldly. “I want to punch you in your perfect teeth.”

“If it will prevent you from doing the same to Bucky,” Steve said, an unfriendly smile on his face. “Then try it. I dare you.”

“Steve—” Bucky began, sounding worried. It was sickening to Tony’s ears.

Immediately, Steve’s voice softened. “It’s fine, Buck,” he murmured, but his intense gaze did not move from Tony’s eyes. “Go to our bedroom—I’ll be there soon once I finish handling this.”

Then, Bucky looked at Tony. “He didn’t cheat on you,” he said, his low voice strained but ostensibly sincere. “I would never—I could never be complicit in something like that.”

Tony didn’t respond, only giving him a fierce glare. Steve’s expression almost instantly darkened. “Your conflict is with me, not him,” he said, a warning and threat clear in his words. Then, quietly but firmly in that commanding alpha-voice of his: “ _Bedroom_ , Bucky.”

And Bucky, after a moment of tense uncertainty, nodded. Touching the part of his jaw where Tony had delivered his punch—it would likely bruise, considering the hardness and brutality of the blow—he turned and walked away in the direction of the bedroom.

Now, Steve relaxed, much less rigid since his omega was away from perceived danger. His anger seemed to drain out of him as well, and he looked exhausted more than anything else. He said, tired, “Listen, it’s late, and I know you’re upset. But neither Bucky nor I were lying when we said there was no infidelity involved. I loved him for a long time—I will not deny that.” And Steve’s gaze met his challengingly. “But that’s it.”

“Ah, so before you were only _emotionally_ and _mentally_ cheating on me, not physically. What a relief, if that’s true.” Tony had to look away, because he could feel the back of his eyes begin to burn. In the fallout of the fight, much of his own rage seemed to have lost its footing. In its place, all he could feel was a deep, profound _emptiness_. “I would ask for how long you’ve loved him, but I don’t think I want to know the answer.”

“Tony—” Steve began, having the audacity to have pity in his voice.

“Whatever you’re about to say, Rogers, save it,” Tony said harshly. Fuck, he could hear his voice tremble. Then, he asked, because he had to, “Did you ever love me?”

“I did,” Steve insisted fervently, and the cracks in Tony’s heart deepened.

“Did,” Tony repeated, a sardonic smile on his face. “Past tense. When did you stop?”

Here, Steve looked away. “Tony, I—”

“How about this, I’ll make it easier for you,” Tony said. “You’ve always had trouble saying the hard truths, so I’ll help you along this time. I will ask a couple yes-or-no questions, and you give an answer. Or don’t—silence is an answer enough, usually.” Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, he asked, “Steve, was it when you met Bucky again that you lost your love for me?”

“I… I don’t know. There was never really a time it just… vanished. It was gradual.”

“But did you begin losing it when Bucky came?”

Now, Steve looked sorrowful. “Tony, I always cared for you, even now—”

“A yes then. Alright. So you’ve slowly stopped loving me these past few months. That’s—that’s fine.” Tony swallowed. He could feel his eyes begin to water—it was pathetic. “Next question: had I been able to conceive back then, would this outcome have changed at all? Or was it doomed from the very beginning?”

Steve closed his eyes, looking strained. “I told you,” he said. “How much having a family matters to me—”

“But,” Tony predicted.

“But Bucky is more important than any of that,” Steve said, opening his eyes. And there was sincerity, unwavering loyalty, and love in their sky-blue depths. “I promised I would be with him till the end of the line. I don’t intend to break my word.”

So, he would abandon all his dreams of having a family for one lone man, Bucky, but not for him. It should make him feel angry, make him feel enraged that all these seven years resulted in this, but all he felt was dead inside.

“So it all comes down to Bucky, doesn’t it,” Tony said, less of a question and more of a statement of fact. His words sounded dull to his ears. “It always did, since he came back.”

“Sorry, Tony. But he's my friend—my omega.” But there was nothing particularly apologetic to his tone. Mostly firm. A little regretful.

And Tony could feel the first tear roll down his cheek as he met the eyes of the man he was still deeply in love with. “So was I.”

* * *

 

Tony had thought that it would help him feel better, ridding himself of all reminders of Steve—a feat that he was never able to do even during their most ugly of breakups. True to his word, he had given the orders to Happy to have Steve’s stuff removed. Most of it was already in particularly sad looking cardboard boxes, ready to be sent out back to Steve’s place.

But it only seemed to make everything _worse_. Tony felt alone, more than ever, in his penthouse suite. He had already known that the breakup was final this time, but this, this just _cemented_ it. There would be no excuse for Steve to come to him again, and Steve _always_ needed an excuse. Otherwise he would have to admit that he wanted Tony back, which meant that he would have to address that he had lost Tony in the first place. This would not do, because Steve preferred to pretend that the breakup never even happened. And Tony, who, despite swearing to himself each time that he wouldn’t let that happen, never actually _did_ anything and ended up allowing Steve to pull whatever ploy to renew their relationship without addressing the problems entrenched within it.

And so, Steve needed excuses. And these excuses, very often, were Steve simply needing to pick up his things from Tony’s place, whether that be his penthouse suite in New York or his mansion in Malibu. And although each time he always came claiming only innocent intentions, each time also ended up with Tony being pushed onto a mattress with a powerful, hard body pressed against his, Tony’s body leaning in to accommodate, to submit, to allow Steve to take this easy way out rather than either of them actually dealing with the larger issues.

And in this, Tony was complicit, because even though logically he knew that their problems needed to be addressed, when he actually faced Steve, when it was actually fucking time to say “enough is enough”, he was unable to. It was almost impossible when Steve stood right before him, offering a way to go back to the way things were, when things were _good_ , without there being another angry, hurtful fight. It was just easier, and Steve just so irresistible and charming; it was all just so much simpler to ignore. And so they did. At least, until their next breakup. Then the cycle would repeat.

But now, Steve wouldn’t have that excuse anymore. There was no more excuse for either of them to meet. And Steve wouldn’t come without that. So this was it. And Tony wanted to sob, feeling completely and utterly miserable as negative, toxic thoughts clogged his brain. Perhaps he _should_ have begged. Perhaps he _should_ have pleaded to change Steve’s mind. Maybe this _was_ his fault—

 _No._ Tony told himself. _What we had was unhealthy. It’s better this way._

But the words seemed empty and meaningless, especially when all he could think of was Steve’s dazzling smile, the softness of his features when he first said “I love you, Tony”. When he was just that twenty-something year old guy from Brooklyn at that party, ethnically Irish and religiously Catholic, offering nothing but simple affection and adoration. When had things become so complicated?

When did things start to go wrong, when it seemed so good, so _perfect_ at the beginning? Or was Tony only romanticizing the past, allowing sentiment and regret to cloud his mind? Were things doomed from the start? Were these past seven fucking years a waste of his time?

That thought alone caused a deep, profound kind of anguish to surge within his chest, and he felt overcome by a heavy sense of hopelessness and misery at the futility and pointlessness of it all. He had dedicated seven years to one man, and for what? For it all to come crashing down on his head? The happy memories he had with him were useless, because they began and ended the same way: pain and heartbreak. No good moment in their relationship was left untouched, and each accidental moment of anything even remotely positive was little more than a flash of wild pleasure before the inevitable storm that followed.

If so, then what was the point to all of it? What was the point to fighting and sacrificing and compromising for Steve Rogers, when it all came down to this?

It was unbearable to think about. Intolerable. Sitting up from the too-large bed that he had been lying in for an undetermined length of time, Tony stood up and walked, feeling weak-legged, towards the cabinet where he kept the unopened bottle of vodka he swore he wouldn’t touch; it was just a well-meaning gift from a business partner from Saint Petersburg who didn’t know him very well, a man who came from a culture where alcohol consumption was shockingly high. Tony should have thrown it away immediately, but he didn’t.

The Cyrillic letters on the bottle were foreign to him, but he knew it was expensive. It _felt_ expensive. It was closed shut with a twist cap—tight, but Tony had a good grip. He didn’t look at the percentage of alcohol on the front, knew that the high number would make him feel bad but not bad enough that he would stop himself, so doing so would be pointless. At the back of his mind, he knew that small sips, small tumblers, and food would help prevent fast intoxication. But all Tony could think of, all he wanted, was a drunken haze. At least for a short while, to step away from the pain. To evade it, even momentarily. Then, maybe, _surely_ , after that brief escape, he would be ready to deal with all of his tumultuous emotions. But not now, definitely not now—

His hands were shaking as he held up the bottle. Straight vodka, in his opinion, was disgusting, but he wasn’t drinking for its flavor. And drinking right out of the bottle wasn’t the way to consume vodka, most certainly not, but the idea of getting tumblers when all he wanted to do was drown himself in alcohol seemed senseless. He had withheld from drinking for, what was it, twenty-three—twenty-four, maybe, since it was probably past midnight—days? Longest he’d managed in a long time, honestly. Surely this occasion justified just one drink. He would get right back on track after this. Definitely.

_Definitely._

* * *

 

“Oh, Tony.”

Rhodey’s sad voice echoed across the penthouse. Tony raised his head, blearily confused, because why was Rhodey here? He didn’t remember opening the door for him; wait, didn’t Rhodey have unlimited access to his suite anyway? He wasn’t quite sure; his brain seemed to be sitting quite uselessly in his head currently. Still, it hurt Tony’s heart to hear, because Rhodey shouldn’t feel sad. Not for him.

“S’rry for not picking up,” Tony slurred. The world spun. Rhodey was suddenly right in front of him, when did he get there? And why was he so much taller than Tony was; was he on the floor? “I wanted to… I just… I…”

He had intended to answer his phone. His mind wasn’t working as it should, but Tony knew that he had reached out to the ringing device, hungering for _someone_. Someone who would be there for him. Someone who would just… listen. But, despite the drunken haze he was in, he had rejected the idea as quickly as it came; no one should have to listen to him whining and complaining about something that he had known, very well, was unhealthy. Tony _could have_ answered Rhodey’s numerous calls and texts, but even as inebriated as he was, something raw and visceral within him rejected the idea. Rhodey had told him countless times to break up with Steve. It was unfair of Tony whine to him about problems that he could have easily avoided if he had just _listened_ (but of course he couldn’t, he couldn’t leave Steve, Steve was everything to him). And now look at him.

And so, Tony hadn’t answered. He let each call ring out into the otherwise dead-silent air, and with each new attempt of Rhodey to contact him, he felt himself sinking under further in despair and self-hatred that he drowned out with more vodka. And then more and more. He could now feel tears across his cheeks. The alcohol smelled sharp and sickening in the air. He might throw up.

“I know,” Rhodey said, looking very sad. “Let me take you to bed.”

Rhodey bent down, kneeling on one knee, to hoist Tony up. Ah, so he _was_ on the floor.

“You’re… you’re very strong,” Tony slurred out, his head spinning. His tongue seemed oddly thick in his mouth, and to accommodate it, he spoke slowly. But once Rhodey helped him up, he instantly felt nauseous. He must have drank a lot, since he had built high tolerance over the years.

“Need to… need to…” Tony said, feeling very ill suddenly.

“I understand,” Rhodey said, his voice soothing, as he brought Tony to the toilet, which was thankfully not far. And as Tony heaved, he felt gentle, comforting fingers in his hair. And for a moment, a brief moment, in his drunken haze, they were Steve’s, and all was well. He closed his watering eyes and leaned into the touch.

All was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is definitely more hurt and angst than there is comfort and fluff in this chapter, I admit, but it’ll get better. Steve doesn’t play much of a role here after this chapter (at least physically), and Stephen Strange will come along soon. :)
> 
> I hope you liked this first chapter! If you would like, please leave a comment; comments motivate me to write and make me very happy. <3


	2. Chapter 2

The days and weeks following the breakup passed by slowly, bleeding into months. Time seemed to move languidly… indolently, even. It was almost stagnation—except, that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Because, as always, the Earth kept turning; Stark Industries continued to grow at a remarkable rate (though Zemo’s words continued to echo in Tony’s head, “—you still want more. Your greed—it must be insatiable!”; it became harder and harder to ignore them). Tony kept having to rush between dinner parties and golf games and business meetings. And, with his company’s reach increasing abroad, Tony’s international plane flights and stays at five star hotels became more and more common.

And things were, to a limited and achingly slow extent, becoming less and less bleak for him. Maybe.

Tony stopped avoiding the TV like the goddamn plague, and instead, whenever Steve made the sudden and unwelcome appearance on the screen, (which, tragically, did happen more than once) he just quickly switched to a different program. His reflexes became admirably fast, similar to those of a snake making its lunge for a hapless rodent or bird. But, sometimes his speed alone was not enough to successfully evade Steve Rogers’ disgustingly attractive face.

For example, once, Tony changed from one channel that Steve had abruptly materialized in (it was some sort of ad for a French luxury goods company in which Steve was able to attract an insane number of omegas just because he’d doused some fancy cologne on the insides of his wrists, which was a fucking lie because he was perfectly able to do that without some artificial sandalwood smell) to another which he was _also_ unexpectedly in (one of his movies—this time a _romance_ of all goddamn genres—being played in full). That was an extremely unfortunate experience that Tony had no desire to go through again.

Apparently, the rumors that Zemo mentioned were just now coming into public attention, mostly because Steve was— _apparently,_ since Tony had only caught a quick glimpse of the cover of a gossip magazine before he quickly (and bitterly) looked away—becoming more open about his relationship with Bucky. But, it was far too late for it all to actually, well, _hurt_ him. It’d been months since the breakup, and now, rather than gossip emerging about why Steve started dating someone—a someone he knew for quite a while—immediately after separating from Tony, people were mostly only wondering who the new omega was, did he have an Instagram account, and _damn it_ they thought they’d had a chance—

But, Tony tried very hard to know as little as possible about it. He really did. He didn’t—he _shouldn’t_ care about what his piece-of-shit ex was up to. And yet, the very idea of Steve dating, of Steve dating _Bucky_ in particular, made something at the bottom of his chest _burn_ with rage. Even now. Even after all this time.

Tony had dated before—he knew breakups took time to fully recover from. But it was already months since Steve split with him, and surely, _surely_ , he should be over the whole damn thing by now? It took Steve a similar length of time to get over _him_ , so, why was Tony still affected?

Indeed, even after all this, the very thought of Steve made him—well, not want to drink to oblivion, crumble to the floor, and cry anymore. That had been… embarrassing, to say the least. But it still invoked in Tony a mixture of hatred, anger, and misery that threatened to overwhelm him whenever Steve’s face unwelcomingly came to his mind or whenever he saw or recalled something that reminded him of the man. And these emotions were very often impervious to his attempts to rationalize them away.

Was this an improvement? Maybe. Maybe not. Tony had never been good at making himself _better_ , even when he tried, but maybe this was a good start. Or, the best start he was going to get, at any rate.

Now that his long-term, serious relationship had ended, he found himself returning to flirting and casual sex. Indeed, he always took a particular enjoyment in having hookups and one-night stands—he didn’t call himself a playboy for nothing, after all; ever heard of scientist Maya Hansen and journalist (now news anchor, apparently) Christine Everhart?—and so, during his travels, only rarely did he go to his hotel room alone. There was something satisfying in it—in knowing that even now, even after seven years, even in spite of his age, he was still talented in seducing and taking to bed absolutely gorgeous alphas who genuinely _wanted_ him, at least for a night. But, although he generally thought of his one-night stands with fondness, as always, Steve had to make things more aggravating for him than they already were. After all, sometimes, he found himself infuriated when he remembered that the intercourse _Steve_ was surely having wasn’t simply sex, it was _making love_ (and _God_ did Tony’s stomach turn at that) with the man that he’d left Tony for. And whenever he juxtaposed Steve’s situation with his own, his hookups suddenly seemed to be pathetic, meaningless trysts rather than the pleasurable, fleeting experiences they really were.

And so, Tony instead put all his mental energy into his work and developing his company’s tech so that he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the dreary thoughts that sometimes filled his brain like miasma. Rhodey helped with that, a lot, often lending him a shoulder whenever he needed one. He—and Happy, too—was shockingly good to him during this time of… healing? That was probably a strong word— _healing._ But, Rhodey was supportive, admirably so. The Russian vodka that Tony had downed like an emotional idiot those months ago had mysteriously disappeared from his penthouse, and Tony had suspicions—though no confirmations—that Rhodey might have had something to do with that.

But honestly, Tony sort of hated that Rhodey was wasting his own precious time trying to deal with his issues which, all things considered, weren’t even _that_ bad. He had gotten dumped—so what? Pretty much everyone fucking else on this planet got dumped at some point in their lives for one reason or another. He should just get over it—it wasn’t Rhodey’s problem that Tony was so affected by Steve that, after being ditched by him for someone else, he couldn’t stop feeling so _betrayed and angry_ in spite of the length of time that had passed since then.

 _Well_ , Tony thought dryly, leaning back against the plush back of the office chair he was sitting on, _I made my bed when I kept on returning to that shitty fucking relationship, so now I’m just lying in it; but hey, it’s a decent bed at least, sheets all silk and Egyptian cotton—_

Then, suddenly, an animated voice broke into his bleak introspection with a chipper: “Mr Stark!” The sound of it echoed across the large, expansive room that he had made his office. Startled, Tony snapped out of the depressive direction his thoughts were taking, and he immediately straightened up from where he was sitting, form slackened, at his desk.

Genuinely taken off-guard, Tony thought, bewildered, _I hadn’t allowed anyone in_ —

But then he looked up to see a teenage boy running straight towards him, Jansport backpack carelessly hanging off one shoulder, casual but nice-looking attire on his lean build (sweater, jeans, sneakers), and all that he could think was, _ah, of course._ The enormous doors (weren’t they locked?) were swinging closed some yards behind him. Following the kid angrily—and much more slowly—was Happy, whose normally prim and neat suit was disheveled. There was clear irritation in each of the features of his face.

“You can’t go th—!” Happy yelled, voice strained with fatigue. Then, finally slowing down to a halt upon realizing that his quarry had managed to reach his boss, he said, more than a little breathlessly and irritably: “Sorry, sir, the kid’s fast, I’ll deal with—”

“It’s fine, Happy,” Tony said, waving him away. “If I didn’t want Peter in my office, he wouldn’t have been able to have gotten in here; I must have given the security an order—”

“Oh, they tried to catch me,” Peter said cheerfully. “Ducked right outta their hands—” At Tony’s stern look, he quickly backpedaled, “But, I have real good news that you’re gonna wanna hear.”

“Happy,” Tony said, long-suffering. “Please tell the security to not freak out and pull the alarm—” Then, ear-piercing sirens rang out, red flashing everywhere. He squinted, the sudden, flaring lights disorienting him. “—They did, didn’t they. Well, please tell them to stop. It’s just an intern who—” He paused, and glanced at Peter who was wringing his hands, now looking a bit ashamed. “You lost your ID again.”

“Yes, but—”

“This the second time, Peter.”

“I mean, to be fair, they wouldn’t have allowed me to enter your office no matter what, so, uh, either way I would have broken the rules—”

Tony silenced him with a glare. Peter guiltily looked away, practically thrumming with nervous energy. Happy, at his order, was now snapping away into his cellphone at, presumably, the security, evidently very annoyed by the events that have transpired.

“Please do that outside, Happy,” Tony said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. The sirens were loud enough; he didn’t need to hear angry shouting as well. “Ah, and can you go have a new ID made for Peter over here? Make two, actually, and give the second one to me. He’ll inevitably lose one of them sooner or later, might as well be prepared for it.”

“Hey—!”

“On it, sir,” Happy said tersely, and his footsteps were loud and heavy as he stalked away. He then proceeded to yell at his phone until the door closed with a soft click, and all went blissfully silent. Even the sirens. Tony’s staff, as always, was quick and efficient… most of the time, anyway. Because had Peter been an actual threat—though even the thought of that, of the name ‘Peter’ and the word ‘threat’ being in the same sentence, made him want to laugh—Tony would possibly have been dead before the first siren rang out.

“Thank God,” Tony muttered to himself, leaning back into his seat again. “Was about to have a headache with all that noise—”

“Wow, this view is amazing!” Peter suddenly exclaimed, cutting his grumbling off. Tony opened his eyes to see the kid looking, starry-eyed, at the wide windows stretching across the walls of his office, showcasing the remarkable skyscrapers of Manhattan gleaming in the warm afternoon sunshine.

“You’ve already been here multiple times,” Tony reminded him evenly.

“Yeah, and each time it’s prettier than the last!” Peter turned around to look at him, a bright grin on his boyish face. “Maybe it’s because this time I actually had to put in effort to evade your—” At Tony’s scowl, he revised, “To, uh, get here. Haha.”

“Speaking of, why _are_ you in my office?” Tony asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You said you had good news.”

“Well, not good news _exactly—”_

Tony tilted his head to the side, and crossed his legs from where he was sitting. “ _Now_ I’m curious.”

“I… I was thinking that we could, you know, the two of us, hang out?”

Tony stilled. “We could _what.”_

“There’s gonna be nice weather the next few days, which is perfect for, um, visiting Central Park, maybe?” Peter said, his voice wavering but clearly determined. “Plus, the school break for Rosh Hashanah is just around the corner—”

“The holiday starts this evening.”

“Okay, then, it starts this evening!” Peter said. “Which _means_ I have no school for the next two days. So I thought you and I could chill tomorrow? The last time we actually did that was _ages_ ago.” Then, a little weakly: “If you aren’t already, you know, busy, of course.”

Tony _was_ busy tomorrow—he had things to do (paper work, working on his tech, et cetera).

But, for Peter…

“Wouldn’t you rather spend your break with your extremely beautiful aunt?” Tony asked. “Or with your friends?”

“Ned is travelling upstate with his family, so I won’t be seeing him. May and I will be going out for some Vietnamese tomorrow—there’s a new pho place in Flushing we wanna try—but that’s in the evening. She’ll be working in the morning and afternoon.”

“And you want to see me, _why?”_

“Why not?” Peter crossed his arms over his chest, squaring his shoulders. He was clearly trying to go for that intimidating alpha look, but he wasn’t doing a very good job at it. Tony tried very hard to hide his growing smile. He evidently failed, because Peter’s face went red. “What?”

“Ah, nothing,” Tony said, now completely unable to hide his grin. “So, what time are you available tomorrow? I can have Happy pick you up, if you’d like. The MTA can be unreliable.”

Peter’s resulting smile was so sunny that Tony found something warm surging in his chest. He tried to will it down, but his attempts were not successful in the slightest.

“Any time!” Peter said. Then, he hastily revised, “Well, not _any_ time, but any time in the day that’s not too close to evening is fine, because then I’d be eating pho with May—”

“How about noon?” Tony suggested easily.

“That’d be perfect!” Peter said, grinning. “It’ll be so fun—we can even get ice cream!” Then, his mood momentarily deflated. “Would there be paparazzis following us? Or like, assassins?”

“Assassins,” Tony repeated dryly.

“You know what I mean! You’re a billionaire.” Then, Peter looked genuinely contemplative. “Would criminals take us as hostages to get your money?” His face quickly brightened again. “Nah, that’s fine, because I’ll protect you, Mr. Stark! I’ve been practicing my fighting a lot—”

Tony gave him a tired and exasperated, but warm, look. “Ever since I took you on that trip to Germany you became cocky,” he said. He then assured him, “We’ll be fine. Happy will be with us, and he used to be my personal bodyguard _and_ the Head of Security at my company. We’ll be in safe hands, I think. He will be on the lookout for paparazzi too, though I don’t think they’ll be much of a problem.”

“I like Berlin. Nice city. Really pretty omegas there,” Peter said chirpily. “Didn’t even have a passport before, and now I’m considering getting one just so I can go again. Maybe this time I’ll take Ned. And Aunt May. You can come too, Mr. Stark, that’d be really fun—”

And as Peter rambled on, Tony focused less on his words and more on his almost infinite cheer, which genuinely was a little contagious. He liked Peter Parker. The kid was full of life. A bit awkward, but that was normal for a fourteen (fifteen, now?) year old, really. Light skin and soft brown hair, cute youthful face, had an unusually attractive aunt. Very smart and talented at engineering, shockingly so, which was why he was the only high school intern at Stark Tower and the only intern that Tony personally hand-picked and offered a position to (which Steve disapproved of immensely, because he believed that Peter was too young and that Tony was using him—it was a matter that caused no shortage of fights between them, but it was also one of the very few arguments that Tony refused to budge on; Peter’s incredible potential in technology and engineering was what kept him determined to have him).

He was clumsy around the omegas he liked, but Tony could tell he would be a fucking killer when he got older. Yes, Peter had a great deal of potential—intellectually and socially—and he would, undoubtedly, become a great man one day. He, strangely enough, looked up to Tony, which Tony really couldn’t understand because he couldn’t see what about him was worth looking up to. Sure, he was a billionaire and a genius, but he could see that same brilliance and prospective for future success in Peter. In fact, Tony believed that Peter would, one day, be better than him.

“—though the next time I go, I’d love to actually see what remains of the Berlin Wa—hey, Mr. Stark, are you listening?

“Yes, you were talking about the Berlin Wall?” Tony said distractedly.

Peter’s energy seemed to sap a bit at this, and he slowly approached the desk. “H-Hey,” he said, sounding quite unsure of himself.

“You’re taking the tone that means you’re about to say something you think I won’t be happy to hear,” Tony said calmly. “Spit it out, kid.”

Peter said, pleadingly, “...Maybe? Please don’t be mad.”

It had been a long time that any alpha said _please_ to him like that. Tony chose not to mention it; he was unsure if Peter would take that as complimentary as Tony intended. “Well, you won’t know till you say it. I promise I won’t be unreasonable about whatever you’re going to tell me.”

“I… met Steve Rogers, when he came over to Stark Tower that one time to see you when you guys were still together,” Peter said, speaking tentatively as though to not distress him. Tony was suddenly very, _very_ still. “He was very friendly. Very nice. I don’t know what happened between you two, but, I’m sorry.” He looked away. “I couldn’t really say that before, wanted to, but it just felt weird. So I’m saying it now. I’m really sorry that you two separated. It… it must have hurt. Everyone I knew in my school was shocked when it happened; we all thought you two would make it.”

“So did I, at times,” Tony murmured, now looking out at the window. Peter was right, the view _was_ gorgeous.

“MJ—ah, Michelle, she’s my… friend? Maybe? We never talked much. She’s cool, though. She told me that you know you’re over someone when you don’t see them everywhere you look. When things that used to remind you of them don’t anymore. Or at least they don’t impact you as much. I dunno if that’s true, because if it is—” And here he shuddered. “I’ve never gotten over Liz. Even _thinking_ about homecoming dances sends a shiver down my spine.”

“Your… friend, she sounds very wise,” Tony mused. And indeed, if that was true, he had not yet gotten over Steve. He was getting there, maybe, but slowly. It was still a work in progress, if nothing else. Starbucks was everywhere, and its green logo seemed to taunt him at every corner in Manhattan. He couldn’t even watch some of his favorite films anymore because either Steve or one of his actor friends were in them.

“She is, I guess, and weird too,” Peter said. “But what I’m trying to say is, probably really badly, that it’ll get better.”

Tony looked away, thinking of the many months that had passed. It was September, already, wasn’t it? Quite some time since May.

Things weren’t perfect, but they never were with him. But, they certainly were not as bad as they were months ago. Definitely not. And, now with Peter standing before him, saying all of these positive things, comforting him…

Tony found himself unable to meet his eyes—deep brown eyes that were filled with the utmost belief and faith in him.

“I hope so,” was all he could say. “I really hope it does.”

* * *

 

“Wait, you’re doing _what—?”_

Tony almost jumped at the sound of Rhodey’s voice, surprised and loud, coming from behind him.

“Jesus, Rhodey,” he said, from where he was lying, spread across the couch. The TV was on but he was just flipping through the channels—right now, it was the news, but it seemed that most of the serious reporting was done for the night. Currently, there was a debate happening between two men who looked very heated about whatever positions they were taking on some political issue. “You scared me for a sec; I was just so invested in this very mature, intellectual discussion on TV that I stopped paying attention to the world around me.” Just as he said that, there was a loud _beep_ as one man attempted to curse the other out.

“You’re not changing the subject,” Rhodey said, though his voice was lowered in volume. He was standing right behind the couch, leaning against the back of it so that he loomed above Tony. “You’re actually going to Central Park tomorrow with Peter?”

Tony’s eyes left the screen of the TV so that he could stare at him, wide-eyed. “...Yes? Is there a problem?”

Rhodey’s gaze met his, unfaltering. “When was the last time that you’ve gone out for leisure?”

Tony bristled. “I went out just yesterday—”

“You went out to a business meeting, try again.”

“I’ve had _tons_ of hook-ups in foreign countries.”

“Countries that you’ve visited for purely work-related reasons.”

“I’m having fun right now.”

“Inside the penthouse, and no, you’re not. You’ve been mindlessly going through channels for the last ten minutes,” Rhodey said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No, I haven’t,” Tony said. “I’m just looking for the right channel. And I’m sure this one is gonna be it—” He switched to the next program to see a stunning brunette reporter with great legs appear on his TV screen. She was talking about controversial tweets some pop singer had written whose popularity was rapidly declining, and she addressed prevailing rumors that the move was a calculated attempt on the singer’s part to put herself in the spotlight again. “And I was right! I love this channel. Right up my alley. This is, uh… entertainment news? Wow, my favorite kind.”

“Tony.”

“I mean, dear Lord, how can—” Jesus, what kind of stage name was _that?_ Was it even pronounceable? “— _that singer_ say such things?” Tony asked, despite the fact that he could honestly care less. “Does she have no heart? What a cruel, cruel world. Absolutely heartbreaking. And to think I loved her song—” Fuck, he didn’t know a single title of one of her songs. “—s, I loved her _songs_ very much. What a waste of talent.”

“ _Tony.”_ He froze, and he turned to look back at Rhodey, whose eyes were gentle. “I’m glad that you’re going out again,” he said. Then, with a considering gaze, he asked, “When’s the last time you drank?”

Tony paused to think. “Hm. Well, I drank a glass of water only an hour ago; it’s good to stay hydrated—” At Rhodey’s hardening expression, he said, “I’m _kidding_. I’ve been alcohol-free for about a month. I swear it.”

“A month. Not bad—thirty days? Thirty-one?”

“Twenty-eight,” Tony corrected. When Rhodey raised an eyebrow, Tony said, “February, remember? When it’s not a leap year, at least.”

“Right,” Rhodey said. “Well, I’m glad nevertheless.”

“You should be,” Tony said. “After all, I’m ninety-nine percent positive that you’re behind that disappearing vodka—not that I’m particularly upset, of course; it wasn’t that great anyway. Though, to be fair, straight vodka has a terrible flavor.”

“It tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

Tony nodded. “Exactly. Which makes it awful.”

“Didn’t stop you from downing it.”

Tony looked up at his ceiling. “I wasn’t drinking it for its _taste_ , Rhodey.” When Rhodey frowned, Tony said, “Don’t give me that look. When I drank it, not only had I recently been dumped by my long-term boyfriend, I’d also found out some pretty devastating news. Was downing vodka a _good_ decision? No, absolutely not. Neither was practically breaking into my ex’s apartment and punching his new boyfriend, really, now that I think about it. Was it an _understandable_ decision? Uh. Don’t know about that one either. I was very emotionally compromised, and I made awful choices. As I always do.”

“You were angry and hurt.”

Tony sighed. “Not an excuse. Steve was an asshole, but Bucky didn’t really deserve that.”

“He could have knowingly had an affair with Steve,” Rhodey pointed out. “You don’t know how innocent he is, and you definitely didn’t know that at the time. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Bucky _said_ he didn’t, but you’re right, I don’t know for sure,” Tony conceded. “And I don’t think I ever will. I don’t trust either Steve or Bucky enough to take their word for it, and there will probably never be adequate proof that they _haven’t_ been fucking before Steve broke up with me. I try not to think about it, though. Steve and I aren’t dating anymore. Might as well get over it.”

“That’s a good attitude to have,” Rhodey said. His eyes softening, he said, “You know, you’ve been happier these days. That’s—that’s also good.”

“You say the nicest things about me,” Tony said, smirking. He sat up from where he was lounging and placed the TV remote on the coffee table in front of him. He then turned around to give Rhodey his full attention, leaning against the back pillows of his couch. “I—”

“And in _other_ news—” the hot brunette reporter on the TV with the amazing legs continued. Tony glanced back at her to see her incredible… _talent_ in reporting.

“Turn that thing off,” Rhodey said. “You aren’t even actually watching it.”

“Are you sure?” Tony waggled his eyebrows at him. “I think the... _news_ is really interesting. Don’t you?”

“Not interested in alphas,” Rhodey responded. And, at the jokingly flirtatious look from Tony, he said, with a slight smile, “Not interested in omegas either, for that matter.”

“Only betas for you, then?” Tony asked.

“Preferably,” Rhodey said.

“Alright, fine. If I’m the only one who can appreciate her _excellent_ covering of celebrity gossip,” Tony said, turning back around to reach for the remote on the coffee table. Rhodey rolled his eyes behind him. “It’s no fun, so I’ll—”

But right before he could finish his sentence and actually take hold of the device, the brunette on the screen announced, “...and there has been a shocking development that occurred only a few hours ago. A new Instagram post made by actor Steve Rogers just earlier this afternoon reveals that he is now officially _off the market_. Yes, I imagine, much to the devastation of many, he has revealed that he and his omega, James, or _Bucky_ , Barnes, are now engaged!”

Tony froze. Rhodey immediately tensed behind him. “Tony—” he began, warningly.

Tony should turn it off. He goddamn should—he had trained his reflexes for a moment like this. There was nothing beneficial to listening to this drivel. Nothing. Yet, he found that he couldn’t move. All that he could hear, all that he could see, was this shitty gossip channel because he _had_ to know more. He had been able to avoid Steve well up until now,—or as well as one _could_ avoid Steve Rogers—but if he turned off the TV without hearing the rest of the story, both the knowledge he had and the knowledge he _didn’t_ have would only eat him alive later. He heard too much for him to be able to just shut everything off and pretend he didn’t care. He might as well get it all over with in one blow. And so, he continued to watch.

“What do you think?” the brunette reporter asked her colleague, a blond omega with shockingly blue eyes. On screen, momentarily, was the Instagram post which consisted of a photo taken of both Steve and Bucky. They were smiling, and they each looked very happy. Tony felt as though something was stuck in his throat at the sight. The mating bite at Bucky’s neck had healed from the fresh, bloody mess that Tony had first seen it as, but it was still clearly visible against his pale skin. A slim silver ring sat at the end of a delicate chain that was hanging from his neck—it was practically a necklace. Perhaps for Bucky, a ring meant to be worn on his left hand—his prosthetic one—wouldn’t be the most convenient or suitable for him. Evidently, Steve found a solution. Right below the image, Steve had typed: “He said yes. :)”

The blonde laughed, but Tony could barely hear her, too focused on the Instagram post. It was only until the image vanished that he was able to actually comprehend the words coming out of her mouth. “Well, it’s a huge surprise. A huge _fantastic_ surprise, of course.”

“It is,” the brunette agreed, pleasant smile on her red-painted lips. “It’s very sudden—only about two weeks ago did Steve Rogers confirm that he was in a relationship with Barnes, and only one week ago did Barnes even show that he had a _mating bite_ on his neck.” Then, she commented, “It’s odd that things have moved so quickly.”

“Well, it only takes one look at the mating bite on Barnes’ neck to know that it didn’t happen recently. Bucky Barnes is a very private person who is not very often caught on camera and so, nobody is quite sure when he first had gotten it. It’s not too far-fetched to wonder if they might have been dating in secret for some time before Steve Rogers made his relationship public,” the blonde said.

“It definitely wouldn’t be the first time that celebrities have been less than open about whom they’re seeing,” the brunette said, raising an arched eyebrow. “Though it does lead to the question of why Steve Rogers would keep his relationship with Barnes under wraps in the first place.”

“Well, it’s well-known at this point that only about four months ago, Steve Rogers broke up with the billionaire Tony Stark.” Hearing his own name made Tony stiffen. He found that he did not like the direction that this discussion was going. “This could be a reason behind the secrecy. A popular rumor being discussed online right now is that Steve Rogers _left_ Tony Stark for Barnes and decided to lie low about the relationship so that it wouldn’t spark any nasty gossip.”

Tony’s heart pounded in his chest. Blood roared in his ears.

“Smart move on Steve Rogers’ end, if that’s true,” the brunette commented, suddenly not as beautiful as she was before. “And, it makes you wonder if there’s any public upset at the possibility that this may be the case—that Steve Rogers left his omega of seven years for another… one that he had once called, in a past interview, his very dear friend!”

“Some, yes,” the blonde said. “Certain people have been quite heated about it on social media. Here are some examples—” And, on screen appeared two very lengthy tweets condemning Steve for his actions, one even suggesting that he might have committed adultery. Some expletives had been blurred out.

“Oh, those are… passionate, to say the least,” the brunette said.

“Yes,” the blonde agreed, before going on to say, “But it seems that the negativity is voiced only by a vocal minority. Most, after all, are just congratulatory and happy about the new couple.”

“That’s no surprise. Engagement is always a very good thing,” the brunette said neutrally. Then, she wondered aloud, “Do you think Tony Stark will come forward about this?” The room was suddenly very cold. Tony felt Rhodey’s fingers, which were now resting on the top of the couch, suddenly tighten, creating a small but harsh dip in the cushion.

“Doubt it,” the blonde said. “He said practically nothing about the breakup when it happened; he refused to respond to questions regarding it. In fact, neither Steve nor him gave any details about their separation. Sources have suggested, however, that it possibly might be because of Tony Stark’s _age_ that Steve Rogers left—”

Rhodey then cursed, and he stalked around the couch to take the remote control from where it was lying on the coffee table. But Tony was faster, and he snatched it from the smooth surface, effectively keeping it out of Rhodey’s reach.

“Tony, this won’t help anything—” Rhodey growled.

“Shh.” Tony’s eyes remained glued to the screen.

“Yes, they had a fourteen year age difference,” the brunette said. “But many have argued that criticizing this shows a _double standard_ , that this relationship only has a bad rap because it consists of an older omega and a younger alpha rather than the other way around.”

“Well, there’s a reason for that, isn’t there?” the blonde said, superficial smile on her lips. “Tony Stark is in his late forties, and they’ve had no children. He’s at the age for menopause, and even if it hasn’t come yet, omegas aren't super fertile when they're that old. Look at Barnes for the sake of comparison! He is only thirty-three, just as is Steve Rogers.”

The brunette tilted her head to the side. “Those possibilities might actually have some truth to them,” she remarked. “After all, Steve Rogers _has_ expressed his desire for having a family when asked about it in recent interviews. I mean, he used to be neutral _at best_ about it before.”

“Yes, they are,” the blonde said, eyes gleaming. “Here are some reactions by people—” And three more tweets appeared on screen, but this time, they were all supporting Steve. Tony read each one, feeling something ice-cold claw up his spine. Although the names were blurred out, they appeared to be written by omegas, and each of them seemed wildly jealous and hateful towards him. “—to these possibilities. Also, many have began to notice that, while Steve Rogers is in a loving, committed relationship, Tony Stark has not had the same luck. We haven’t found any proof of him being in a relationship—let alone a photograph of him on a single date—since the breakup, nor has there been any news confirming that he has been.”

Tony gritted his teeth, anger simmering beneath his skin. How _dare_ they—?

“But enough of Tony Stark,” the brunette said. “Back to the subject of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. Has there been any news of a wedding yet?”

The blond laughed. “Nothing, unfortunately, though rumor is that—”

Distracted, Tony hardly noticed when Rhodey snatched the remote from his hand and angrily turned off the TV. Then, he settled on the couch right next to Tony, grasping Tony’s shoulders—gently, but firmly—to maneuver his torso so that they faced each other.

“What they think doesn’t matter,” Rhodey said, resolute, his dark eyes intense and unwavering. “They know only bits and pieces of the situation. And Rogers… he doesn’t deserve you. Never has. And he certainly doesn’t deserve any emotions—whether those be grief, anger, or whatever else—you feel for him now. He’s worthy of _nothing_ but indifference.”

“It’s just so crazy to me,” Tony said, no little amount of bitterness in his voice. “How even when they come to some conclusions that are scarily accurate, they _still_ find a way to put the blame on me. I don’t need coddling—I don’t. And I sure as hell don’t care about what some hungry-for-views entertainment news channel thinks of me. But, it just never fails to surprise me just how they twist _everything_ to fit their narrative.”

“They make money off of tearing successful people down,” Rhodey said. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“I don’t plan to,” Tony said, with a dry smile. “Had I heard that a few months ago, I… don’t want to think how I might have taken it. But things are different now. Besides, I’ve gotten worse press and heard worse rumors in the past, so I think I’ll be fine. Still—it doesn’t mean I’m not a little pissed off.”

“A little pissed off is understandable,” Rhodey said. “But hey, some people do have your back—remember those two tweets supporting you. Vocal minority, maybe, but still. And, as all rumors do, these will die down soon enough. Most people, as that reporter mentioned, are just focused on Rogers, rather than thinking much of whom he dated prior.”

“True,” Tony said. Then, with a mournful sigh. “You know what would be great in this moment? A really nice vermouth.” At Rhodey’s glare, he said, “I _know_. I’m not actually going to drink alcohol. Remember—twenty-eight days. Now _that’s_ a fucking record I’m not yet keen on breaking.”

“We _can_ drink,” Rhodey said. At Tony’s shocked stare, he smiled. “What would you prefer—water or juice?”

At this, Tony burst out laughing. “Of course,” he said, once his chuckles died down. “Of course.” Then, with a grin, he said, “Apple juice, please. On the rocks.”

“You want _ice cubes_ in your apple juice.” There was no shortage of disgust in Rhodey’s voice.

“It’s a _joke!_ Jesus Christ—just go get my goddamn apple juice. It’s in the refrigerator. And get two glasses. Unless you’d rather just watch me drink.”

Rhodey closed his eyes and smiled, before standing up from the couch. “Got you. Apple juice on the rocks.”

Once Rhodey left the room to go fetch the drinks, a tension—which he didn’t even know was there—left Tony’s shoulders. A strange sort of mix of anger and sadness uneasily sat at the bottom of his stomach, stubborn and persistent in spite of Rhodey’s comforting words. And, because he knew that it was not only caused by the little bits of gossip that the reporters mentioned, Tony despised the amalgamation of emotions even more than he already did.

He was still being affected by Steve. Still. Tony shakily ran fingers through his hair, cursing softly.

So _what_ if Steve was engaged now? _So what?_ Their relationship had ended. Tony should be over him by now. He didn’t love him anymore—he didn’t think he did, at least, but then again, he hadn’t met Steve in person for quite a while so maybe that had something to do with it. How would he react if he met Steve again? Would he fall back into his arms? Fuck no. He wasn’t _that_ pathetic, was he?

It was true that as time went on, the less Tony yearned for Steve, and the more he saw, objectively, the glaring problems in the relationship they had shared. Admittedly, over these last few months, he did have a recurring fantasy of Steve coming back to him, begging for forgiveness, with Tony, in turn, coolly turning him away, already in the arms of a different alpha.

But would he be able to be so indifferent to Steve now, _if_ Steve were to come back to him? He wasn’t sure. Despite the fantasy, Tony didn’t like to think of it much—it was pointless. After all, it would never happen, and in spite of the brief feeling of gratification he would gain from imagining it, he knew that even considering the possibility of Steve returning to him at all would only cause him more pain than he would have liked. It was better to simply accept that things had completely ended, that Steve would never go back to him. And, for the most part, he already had.

Tony then leaned back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling of his penthouse suite. He thought of Peter’s comforting words—“ _It’ll get better”_ —and Rhodey’s—“ _You know, you’ve been happier these days”_ —and, for a moment, he closed his eyes to listen to them echo in his mind, again and again. The clusterfuck of emotions that Steve’s engagement invoked in him was still there, but it suddenly felt more manageable. Less powerful, less raw.

Months ago, the idea of living without Steve seemed unbearable, but here he was. Hurting still, but he was getting there. Tony didn’t quite know what “there” was, or even if such a concrete place or state of being existed, but he intended to get as closest as possible to it nevertheless. Somehow.

* * *

 

“Hey Hap—oh my God, _Mr. Stark_?!”

Tony smirked at Peter, who was staring at him through the open door of the car with wide eyes, his mouth agape in shock. Evidently, he had not been expecting Tony to be there, which was no surprise considering he didn’t say he would be coming with Happy to pick him up.

“Hey, Peter,” he said. “Thought I’d drop by.”

“But—you came all the way to Queens from Manhattan?”

“It’s not as far as you think,” Tony said coolly. “About thirty minutes, really, if you ignore the traffic. Now, get in.”

And Peter, still clearly stunned, did just that, sliding into the seat right next to his. In the driver’s seat was Happy, who was tapping the wheel impatiently. Peter closed the car door, and then he turned to Tony. He began, “I—”

“Seatbelt,” Tony said, cutting him off. “If, God forbid, something happens, I really don’t want to be the one to tell your stunningly beautiful aunt that you went flying right out through the car window.”

Peter instantly put it on, inserting the metallic tongue into the buckle with a loud _click._

“Better,” Tony said. Then, he turned to Happy. “Start the car, please.”

And, as the vehicle began to move, Peter started to speak again. “Mr. Stark, thank you so, _so_ much for coming to see me. Like, I literally asked you to hang out with me yesterday which was really short notice, and the fact that you’d come to actually, I dunno, pick me up—”

Tony waved his hand. “It’s nothing, kid. I just wanted to see your aunt—”

“She’s _working!”_

“I know, the odds were against me. I was hoping against hope there, I admit.” Tony slid out a small tin of mints from his pockets. “I was even prepared—” At Peter’s scandalized look, he said, “—for a _kiss on the cheek_ ; Christ, Peter, get your mind out of the gutter!” Then, he opened the tin, and he held it out to him. “Want one?”

Peter accepted it with a huff, taking a white mint and putting it into his mouth in a swift movement. Tony took one himself, enjoying the fresh flavor that it filled his mouth with, and then tucked the tin away.

“Now,” he said, speaking around the small mint in his mouth. “What do you want to do in Central Park?”

“Walk around? Maybe get some ice cream?” Peter said. Then, looking concerned: “You like ice cream, right?”

“Of course I do. I even have a flavor named after me.”

“Seriously?! That’s so cool!”

The conversation continued on in this light-hearted manner. Eventually, the tiny storefronts and relatively small brick buildings of Queens vanished into a dimly lit darkness as the car entered the Queens–Midtown Tunnel. Peter, somewhat morbidly, wondered aloud if they would be able to survive if the tunnel somehow collapsed and the East River came crashing down on them. The two had a brief argument about that, each taking opposing sides on the matter (Peter being absolutely certain that they _could_ , while Tony being adamant that they _couldn’t_ ). And then, when the vehicle exited the tunnel, sunlight filled the car once more, causing Tony to squint as his eyes tried to adjust after being in the darkness for a few minutes. Soon, tall buildings—though certainly not skyscrapers yet—greeted him.

“Manhattan is so awesome,” Peter commented, looking thoroughly impressed by what was outside the car window he was looking out of.

“You live right next to it,” Tony pointed out. “And you intern here.”

“True, but that makes it no less cool,” Peter said. “It’s so different from Queens that it sometimes feels like they’re two different cities. Except they’re not. They’re two different boroughs, but they might as well be different cities. I mean—Staten Island is a borough, but who _goes_ there? It’s like its own thing that everyone else in New York just forgets about.”

“You skipped school to go on the ferry there once,” Tony reminded him.

“Yeah, and you got really pissed at me when you found out,” Peter said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

“Water under the bridge,” Tony replied easily.

“Water under the bridge that we would _totally_ be able to swim out of, by the way, if that tunnel collapsed—”

“ _No,_ we would not—” Tony began again, and he heard Happy sigh audibly from where he was sitting in the driver’s seat.

On Sixth Avenue, the vehicle drove through Midtown, where skyscrapers—glistening black and silver—loomed above them. Eventually, as their car ride was approaching its end, Tony could see the green trees—not yet brown, but he could see _some_ leaves beginning to change color—peeking up shyly at the end of the street. Ah, Central Park. But of course, it would be right then—right when he saw the destination of their trip, so close that it was practically _taunting_ him, in the distance—that traffic would prevent the car from actually reaching it.

“Mr. Stark, can I make a sudden request?” Peter suddenly asked, as the vehicle came to a halt.

“Go ahead,” Tony said. And, with a nasty glance at the line of cars in front of his, he muttered, “Besides, it’s not like we’re going anywhere any time soon.”

“So I’m really thirsty—”

“You didn’t bring water?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow. Then, turning to the driver’s seat, he said, “Happy! Get water for the kid—”

“I _have_ water!” Peter protested. At Tony’s quizzical look, he swallowed and quickly explained, “But, you see, I’ve been really craving hot chocolate, and I can see a Starbucks _right there_. So I was hoping that I can go get myself one—I swear that it’ll only take a quick second—”

Tony looked around. “A Starbucks? I don’t see...” His voice trailed off when he caught sight of that distinct green sign with the white font that was so rampant throughout New York City. But, the satisfaction he received from finding the Starbucks that Peter was referring to was painfully brief. After all, it was not long after this that recognition hit him _hard_ , causing his blood to drain from his face and his body to tense in all of the worst possible ways. Because that very Starbucks that Peter wanted to go to—the small one on the corner with all the glass—was the same exact Starbucks that Steve dumped him in.

Well, shit.

Peter seemed to notice Tony’s now pallid complexion, because he asked, clearly concerned, “Are you alright, Mr. Stark—?” And then, he too stilled, realization coming to his eyes, causing his face to twist in horrified mortification. Quickly, having become aware of his error, he rushed to say, “I can go alone. Or, I don’t have to go at all. There’s a good place in my neighborhood that I can go to with Ned when he comes back from upstate. Y-Yeah. Now that I think about it, that’d be for the best. Ignore what I said earlier. I don’t need a Starbucks drink.”

It would be so easy to escape the situation he was in. Tony wouldn’t even have to deprive Peter of his hot chocolate to do so—he could very easily ask Happy to escort him to the Starbucks while he stayed in the car. It would take only a few minutes tops, and then he could get on with his day. But, he then remembered what Peter said to him (“ _You know you’re over someone when you don’t see them everywhere you look. When things that used to remind you of them don’t anymore. Or at least they don’t impact you as much.”_ ) and what Rhodey said to him (“ _And he certainly doesn’t deserve any emotions_ — _whether those be grief, anger, or whatever else_ — _you feel for him now. He’s worthy of_ nothing _but indifference”_ ). He recalled how affected he was by Steve, even now.

Tony could not let this keep happening. He couldn’t let his ex control where he could and couldn’t go—he couldn’t let Steve have this much of a mental hold on him. And if that meant going out of his comfort zone to ensure that he could break free from this, or, at the very least, rebel against it, then so fucking be it.

“No, it’s fine,” Tony said smoothly, ignoring how his stomach turned uneasily at the knowledge of what he was agreeing to do. “I’ll go with you—I’ve been wanting some coffee anyway.” Then, turning to the driver’s seat: “Happy, when this traffic starts moving, can you drop us off at that Starbucks?”

Happy looked mildly unsure about this, but he did not question it. Tony sat in silence, more than a little unsettled and anxious, and the feelings only worsened as the vehicles in front of his began to pick up pace and his own car was once more able to be driven forward. And when the traffic did indeed finally move, Happy did as Tony asked—he pulled up near the front of the coffeehouse, allowing Tony and Peter to get off.

“I’ll call you when we’re done,” Tony told Happy once he exited the car. And as he watched his vehicle drive off, he slid on his sunglasses. They likely wouldn’t do much, but they covered his face a little bit and that gave him a—perhaps false—sense of safety and concealment.

“Well,” Tony said to Peter, after taking in a deep breath of air. “Let’s head in.” No point in drawing it out. Get it over with, and get it done with.

The coffee place was not nearly as bustling as it typically was, though to be fair, in the early afternoon it wasn’t as crowded as it tended to be in the morning. The line was not very long, and it was much to his pleasure that he and Peter were able to get to the front relatively quickly. As he headed to where the baristas were, he tried very hard to keep his eyes away from the exact place within the establishment that Steve dumped him, though he could see it from the corner of his vision, mocking him. Suddenly hyper-aware of the possible implications in the media and press of him having come to this Starbucks in particular, Tony adjusted his sunglasses, hoping that they were enough to at least somewhat disguise him. Though, considering that he had a tendency to wear sunglasses when out in public, he doubted that this attempt would be very effective.

Oh well. It was too late to back out now.

Pulling out his credit card to pay for both Peter and himself—in doing so, he blatantly ignored Peter when he insisted that _he_ was causing all this trouble so _he_ should pay—Tony ordered a hot chocolate (for Peter) and a latte (for himself), because lattes were delicious and he was not going to let Steve ruin them for him simply because he happened to drink one when he had been broken up with. But before he could pay, a too-cheerful voice asked:

“Would you like a butterfly or a teddy bear in your latte?”

Tony froze, and he looked up to find that the barista in front of him—whom he had not been paying much attention to before, admittedly—was the very same one that he had ordered a coffee from on the day of his breakup. Wow. Wasn’t he just lucky today?

Tony very quickly recalled the sadism of the teddy bear, and so, his immediate answer was, “Butterfly, please.” The regret he felt was instantaneous—he should have asked for no-foam instead, especially considering that latte art usually took a good amount of time, and he really wanted to get out of this place. But, to be fair to the butterfly, it was surely the better option over the teddy bear. It was an insect, after all—it wouldn’t have a cruel grin or near-sociopathic eyes when it was being portrayed in a latte, would it? Because otherwise, Tony doubted that it would be a popular choice amongst customers.

If nothing else, the barista smiled even brighter than before, clearly pleased that he was giving her an opportunity to stretch her artistic wings. At least _she_ was happy.

Once the order was taken, Tony and Peter moved to the side to wait for their drinks, allowing the next person in line to take their place.

“I _really_ should have paid—” Peter began, evidently a little bothered by what had happened.

“Nope, too late,” Tony said. “And trust me, what your hot chocolate cost for me is not even a dip in my fortune. In fact, the price I paid for it is _microscopical_ in comparison to the amount of money I have. And I’m not saying that to brag either. I’m telling you this to let you know that you shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“Mm.” Peter still seemed troubled, but his features did lose some of their tension.

Tony opened his mouth to say something further, something light-hearted to brighten the mood, but before a single sound left his lips, there was a movement at the far reach of his vision, catching his attention. He turned his head to look, only to see that one of the glass doors leading to the busy streets of Manhattan was slowly sliding closed; two individuals—men—had entered the coffeehouse through it. Tony’s eyes flitted to them, just to take stock of the newcomers if nothing else. Like, would they be those stern Wall Street businessmen dressed to the nines (though, if that were the case, why they would be all the way here was beyond him because there were _definitely_ Starbucks coffeehouses closer to Wall Street than this one) or some university students, maybe from NYU or Columbia? Or, God forbid, journalists and paparazzis. Either way, Tony’s curiosity was superficial and brief at best—all he wanted was just a quick glance to see who it was, and then he would lose interest and move on with his day.

But, it wasn’t either of those categories. And he _didn’t_ lose interest.

Because of the two men who came in, one of them looked _vaguely_ familiar to him. And this caught his attention because it wasn’t often that he would meet someone he knew in a Starbucks. After all, most of the individuals he was acquainted with would never step foot in one. So the fact that a man he recognized from somewhere would be _here_ of all places was one that piqued his interest.

He was handsome, Tony had to give him that. Handsome enough to cause his heartbeat to quicken. He was tall also—taller than him, certainly, at _least_ six feet in height—and lean in build. His face was attractive with sharp features—most notable about it were, perhaps, his amazing cheekbones and goatee. Jesus Christ, the effort that man must put into shaving to ensure that his facial hair looked as nice as it did! He must be very skilled in trimming. Tony Stark had respect for him immediately because of that; he too had a goatee that required a lot of maintenance, and so he knew very well how much work it required.

The man’s hair was sleek and neat, though not without a few strands falling attractively over his forehead. It was all black, discounting two (oddly appealing) gray streaks at the sides, and although they spoke of his age, he wasn’t very old—he was in his early forties, at most. Definitely younger than Tony, though not by much. His shoulders weren’t extremely wide, but they certainly were broad in comparison to how handsomely lean the rest of his body was. And Tony wagered that he was muscular as well—not a bodybuilder, most definitely not, but he could imagine him having a wiry, athletic sort of body.

The outfit he wore—a thin, elegant black jacket on top of a gray shirt, black denim pants well-fitted over very long, attractive legs—complimented his pale skin and dark hair. There was a certain grace to him. He seemed distinguished in his appearance, and there was a striking intelligence to his gaze. He looked European, but Tony received a vibe from him that was distinctly New York in flavor. Though, he wouldn’t know where he was from for sure unless he talked to him—

 _Talk_ to him? Tony drew back, shocked at the direction his thoughts were taking. Angered, he very quickly reprimanded himself. He was supposed to lie low and challenge Steve’s hold on him without being caught by the press (though he possibly already was, but oh well). So what if this man was extremely attractive? So what if there was something about him that appealed to a part of Tony—a base, almost animalistic, _visceral_ part of him—more than any of the alphas he had slept with since being dumped by Steve ever had? More than any alpha that he’d seen in a very long time, in fact? God, was he _even_ an alpha? He had to be—those intense, predatorial eyes… they _surely_ belonged to an alpha, and Tony was not often wrong when making these kinds of deductions. He was better than most, even better than Rhodey who was _brilliant_ at them. Though, if he wanted to be _completely_ certain, he would have to get closer to him—

There went his mind again, making irrational decisions without the consent of, well, his reason! He would have to keep himself in check… but oddly enough, his gaze could not stay away from the newcomer. Tony, of course, tried to keep his staring subtle—which wasn’t too hard, considering how his sunglasses hid his eyes quite nicely—but the thrill-seeking, flirtatious, _wanting_ side of him secretly hoped for acknowledgement. Almost jealously (possessively) his vision strayed to the the other person who came in with him, as though something innate to his biology as an omega immediately labeled this stranger as a potential rival. This was, of course, ridiculous because Tony logically had no right to be jealous about or possessive of either these people, and yet something instinctual and almost animal-like within him curled its lips into a hateful snarl.

This other individual was of a stocky, portly build. He was definitely shorter than the man Tony was interested in, and he was ethnically Asian. His hair was shaven, and there was a stern, mean look on his face. Tony had the feeling that this individual, in spite of his hard eyes and tight scowl, was an omega, and this only tightened the greedy, covetous sensation building hotly in his core.

 _God, I need to calm down,_ Tony thought, practically having to force his gaze away. When was the last time he’d felt this? _Had_ he ever felt this? He’d always been a _bit_ clingy, whether that be with Pepper or Steve (though his jealousy had been particularly present when he was dating Steve, for the obvious reasons) but had he ever felt like _this?_ And especially for a stranger, of all people!

 _Was_ he a stranger though? Tony narrowed his eyes. He could have sworn he’d seen him somewhere—

And then, a loud bark broke him out of his thoughts. Peter, who was idly scrolling through Instagram on his cellphone next to him, immediately straightened. Patrons—who had been drinking coffee, having conversation with their companions, or waiting in line—perked up and looked around, eyes in search for the source of the sound. And Tony, embarrassingly enough, was very likely the first person who found it.

Because of course, the bark belonged to a dog that, judging by the place it stood at and the person it stood by, happened to belong to the man that Tony was ( _mildly_ ) interested in. It was a tall canine with a strong, deep chest that tapered into a very slender, thin waist. Its ears were long and droopy, and its snout was prominent. Its fur was long and silky, glistening a vibrant red color in the warm light of the coffeehouse; clearly, the owner was good not only at grooming himself, but also his pet. Speaking of, how hadn’t Tony noticed the dog in the first place? It certainly wasn’t small. Had Tony, thanks to his rationality being stifled by an influx of omega instinct, been so animalistically focused on its probably-alpha owner (and, consequently, the owner’s probably-omega companion as well) that he didn’t even realize that it had even been there? Jesus, what was _wrong_ with him?

“I thought dogs weren’t allowed in Starbucks?” Peter whispered to Tony. He was still looking at the canine in awe.

“They aren’t?” Tony didn’t know what policies Starbucks had, but if the store didn’t permit dogs, then it wasn’t doing a very good job of enforcing its own rules. Tony did briefly look at the baristas to see their reaction to the animal. Most of them, to his shock, were ignoring it. They had glanced up briefly, yes. But then they resumed doing their work immediately after as though they hadn’t just witnessed a clear violation of the establishment’s policies. Only one of the baristas actually seemed to care, but it only took seconds for his annoyed expression to evaporate into one of exasperation. He then sighed, clearly overworked, before letting it go. Tony had the feeling that people bringing in their pet dogs in spite of the rules was a common occurrence here, and that the service workers were beginning to grow tired of rebuking customers for doing this.  

The dog barked yet again, sounding annoyed but insistent. The owner groaned, saying softly but firmly, “Stop that, Levi.” Dear Lord, his voice—it was deep, domineering, powerful… Tony’s knees felt weak at the sound of it. But the dog was not nearly as affected as Tony was, made clear by how it stubbornly pulled at its leash—oh dear, a leash as well, a leather one, hanging onto a thick band (a _collar!)_ at the canine’s long, elegant neck and ending in the owner’s graceful—those markings, were they _scars?_ —hand. It was a very attractive sight, and Tony had to shake his head immediately to clear himself of his aggravating (albeit congenital) thoughts, furious with himself and his nature.

The man gave his companion a tired look, and the companion in turn gave him a mere shrug, almost like a ‘that’s your problem, man’ sort of gesture.

The customers and patrons, after giving brief attention to the dog, turned back to whatever that they were doing, their curiosity having been sated. A small blond child was eying the animal yearningly, though her mother did not look nearly as interested in the canine as she was in its owner. And instantly, Tony’s animal-self bristled its pelt, and it was only when he clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails dug, painfully, into the flesh of his palm, that he could get himself out of this strange state of mind he was in.

He knew that alphas and omegas were drawn to one other almost instinctively, but he was also aware that this attraction was much more stronger between some pairs than others. Tony had felt something like this with Steve, and it was very likely why he had clung to him so pathetically, but this level of captivation was new even for him. It had to be, because Tony would surely remember if he had experienced it before otherwise.

“Wong,” he heard the man say, his baritone voice not particularly loud against the soft murmur of conversation in the coffeehouse but _very_ strong to Tony’s ears. “Can you hold him for me? I’m going to go on line, and he can get… very excitable when he’s near the counter. You remember last time.”

“Your dog,” the companion, _Wong_ , said, “listens to nobody—only sometimes to you, but certainly not to me.” His voice was gravelly and accented.

“You’re strong.”

“And so is Levi, Stephen,” Wong said. Stephen—Christ, of _course_ his name would be Stephen. Still, that first name, it sounded familiar—

“Fine.” The man, Stephen, ran fingers through his hair, and Jesus, that gesture was more attractive than it had any right to be. “I’ll hold the dog while we buy the drinks. But if there’s an accident—”

The dog, Levi, began to growl again, his eyes focused intensely on the barista.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Wong said pleasantly. “You go on line, and I’ll be outside. I need to make a phone call.”

“A phone call,” Stephen repeated, unconvinced.

“For work.”

Stephen gave him an irritated look. Wong met his gaze evenly, unflinching.

“Did you bring money?” Stephen then asked.

“Nope.”

“Seriously?” Stephen raised an eyebrow. “You don't have any money?”

“Attachment to the material is detachment from the spiritual,” Wong responded easily.

Stephen sighed. “I'll tell the barista. Maybe she'll make you a metaphysical Caffè Mocha.”

Then, Wong blinked, as though he suddenly realized something. “Oh, wait, wait, wait,” he said, quickly pulling a wallet from his jeans and sifting through it. “I think I have two hundred.”

Stephen looked surprised at that. “Dollars?”

“Rupees.”

“Which is?”

“Uh, buck and a half.”

Another growl began to vibrate at the dog’s throat. Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That wouldn’t be enough for a single item on the Starbucks menu.”

“That’s unfortunate, because two hundred rupees are all I have.”

Stephen sighed _again_ , long-suffering. “Nevermind, I’ll pay. What do you want?”

Wong’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “I wouldn't say no to a Caffè Americano.”

At that, Stephen chuckled dryly. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

And then finally he began to walk towards the end of the fortunately short line, which only consisted of one other person. The dog immediately tried to rush towards the barista, but Stephen kept a firm hold on the end of the leash, keeping the canine from, well, _leaping_ at the poor employee.

Tony finally, with much more willpower than he would have liked to admit, looked away. His sunglasses hid his eyes quite well, but, at the somewhat closer proximity, he did not want to risk anything. Peter made this easier when he suddenly said to him, excitedly, shoving his phone in front of him, “Mr. Stark, check out this _hilarious_ thing Ned sent to me!”

Tony did glance at it, and, in all honesty, the image—and the supposed humor within it—was so _abstract_ that he struggled to understand it. Yet, the kid was beginning to laugh hysterically, so there was something painfully funny about it that Tony just couldn’t understand. And when Peter realized that he looked more confused than anything else, he said, “Ah. Right. My bad.”

“Explain it to me,” Tony said, narrowing his eyes at the image.

Peter still had a grin on his face, but he turned his phone away so that its screen was no longer facing Tony. “You won’t understand. It’s… it’s a thing people my age find funny.”

Tony gave him a tired look. _Then why show it to me in the first place?_

But before he could push again for an explanation, he suddenly became aware that, at the corner of his vision, Stephen was approaching him. His nerves shot up, and he suddenly became _very_ aware of himself and his own appearance. He, hopefully imperceptibly, straightened his fitted dark gray suit jacket so that it complimented the shape of his torso, and he briefly admired how the whiteness of the shirt he wore underneath it provided a nice contrast of color when it sat against his tanned skin. He remembered how well-styled his hair had been in the morning and hoped that the the shape of it was maintained even now, though last time he checked it was looking pretty good—

God, he was beginning to sound very much like an omega, a _preening_ omega—which wasn’t a bad thing of course because he _was_ an omega, but, after all these months of seducing and sleeping with alphas without feeling anything particularly strongly for them, he had thought he had gained a much better hold on his base instincts. Evidently, he had not.

But, of course, the man wasn’t actually heading towards _him_ —he stopped right near him, yes, but only to take out his cellphone to look at his _emails_. He probably hadn’t even given much notice to Tony. Most likely, he had just made his order—shockingly fast, if that was the case—and was simply waiting for his drinks just as Tony was.

 _Of course._ Tony felt disappointment rising to his throat that he couldn’t properly stifle, which was ridiculous because he really had nothing to be disappointed _by_. What was he expecting—to be swept off his feet and taken to this attractive stranger’s bed in an instant? That cliche nonsense only happened in movies—in fact, it even happened in one of _Steve’s_ movies, a fact that immediately made him look away and scowl in disgust.

He then felt something warm press against his leg, and he looked down at the dog, who was pacing back-and-forth and eying the counter with irritated, expectant black eyes. What was he even upset about? He seemed eager for something, but Tony was not familiar enough with the inner workings of Starbucks to know exactly what he wanted or what he could possibly want. Starbucks didn’t give treats to dogs, did it?

“Ah, _Peter?”_ the barista called out cheerfully. Tony had used Peter’s name instead of his for the sake of some anonymity, and the kid’s head immediately perked up, his eyes wide in mild surprise.

Tony said, “I’ll get it,” but when he reached out for the hot chocolate and the latte, _of course_ his hand would accidently knock against the stranger’s arm. He was hyper-aware of the touch, of the softness of the fabric against his skin. Still, he pulled his hand back as though it had been burned,—it felt like it had been, in a way—but before he could apologize, the dog _snarled_ from where he was standing beneath him. Tony stared at him, shocked at how aggressive he looked, his mouth all sharp white teeth and eyes black with ferocity. His lips were pulled back, and his body was tense with the clear intent to attack.

“Levi!” Stephen snapped, and although the dog didn’t budge, not really, he didn’t leap forward as he looked like he wanted to. Stephen’s grasp tightened on his leash. The dog’s gaze did not move or waver from Tony’s, however.

Tony took a step back, raising his hands at the angry canine placatingly. “Wow, you are one seriously loyal pooch, aren't you?” he commented. Then, slowly as to not startle the dog, Tony lifted the hot chocolate from the counter and handed it to Peter. Afterwards, he took hold of his own latte and momentarily admired the graceful white butterfly sitting in the light brown of his coffee. No sociopathic eyes or smile on it—excellent. Then, he took a small sip. It was hot, but good.

“He is,” Stephen said, looking at his pet sternly. “I’m so sorry about this. He can be quite… protective… at times.”

And when Stephen’s gaze finally met his, Tony’s stomach suddenly felt weird, fluttery, all butterflies. Stephen was even more handsome up close, which Tony didn’t think would have been possible. And he was definitely an alpha—the dominance, the control… it was all practically _radiating_ off of him. But then Stephen’s eyes widened, recognition flooding into their pale blue (or pale green? Tony couldn’t quite tell) depths. “Wait… are you…?”

“The genius, billionaire, philanthropist Tony Stark? If so, then I’m the one and only.” He finished Stephen’s question and answered it in one go, speaking smoothly but quietly so that no one else could hear. And as he did so, he removed the sunglasses from his face, hanging them on his shirt. At Stephen’s clear surprise, Tony explained, with a gesture towards Peter who was eying both of them curiously, “Just buying a drink for the kid over here—he has awful taste when it comes to decent hot chocolate, but you can’t blame him too much. Out of pity, of course, I got myself a latte to make him feel less embarrassed about his lack of working tastebuds, but don’t tell him that.”

“Hey!” Peter protested, but Stephen only chuckled.

“Of course,” he said, though, judging by the amused twinkle in his eyes, he didn’t seem particularly convinced by his supposed dislike of his coffee. Then, turning to Peter, he said, “And you are… his ward?”

“Hello, sir,” Peter said, bright and cheerful. He took a large sip of his hot chocolate. “I’m an intern at his company—my name’s Peter.”

“ _Doctor_ , please,” Stephen corrected.

“A doctor!” Tony smirked. “And do you have a name that we can call you by? Or would you prefer to be referred to only by your title?”

“Ah.” Stephen smiled, almost slyly. The sight of it sent a small shiver down Tony’s spine. “Well, Tony Stark—” And God, did his name sound almost _obscene_ coming from this man’s lips. “I’m Doctor Stephen Strange, and I do believe that we’ve seen each other before.”

Doctor Stephen Strange… the name sounded very, _very_ familiar—

And then, it hit Tony at once. _Ah._

“You held a party at your apartment,” Tony said. “One that I attended.”

“Yes,” Strange said, pleased. “You remember.”

It had been a fine apartment too. All gleaming golden lights and luxurious wooden furniture. It had enormous windows that showed a decent view of Manhattan. The place had a very modern feel to it. There’d been many clocks—many, _many_ clocks. The _tic-tic-tic_ sound had been impossible to ignore, but the beautiful music being played on the piano had made up for it. There had been an enormous case with Strange’s degrees—both his M.D. and Ph.D. from Columbia—and all of his trophies, gold and gleaming in the warm lighting of the apartment. There had been many of them.

Only elites—some that Strange hadn’t even personally known, evident by Tony’s presence there—had been invited which alone spoke of what exactly kind of party it was. The event had been held in the afternoon, and there had been many, many people there. But, only one stood out to him—

A tall, handsome alpha, with his dark hair slicked back and his pale face clean-shaven, who had been donning an expensive black suit and bow-tie. The host of the event himself—Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange. He had been known to be fiercely intelligent. Very arrogant. Extremely narcissistic. Disgustingly materialistic. A lovely omega with wavy light brown hair and round eyes had been at his side, and though she’d been smiling, she did not seem to be enjoying herself nearly as much as he had been. Not that he’d seemed to care about what she thought, at any rate.

“I remember you. You were one of the best—if not _the_ best—neurosurgeons in New York,” Tony said. “We didn’t talk—there were too many people at the event and I had to leave early; sorry about that, by the way—but you’re right. I _did_ see you.”

Indeed, their gazes had met, briefly. And it’d been an electric moment—Tony could remember feeling an odd warmth pooling at the bottom of his stomach, his heart rate speeding up. But Strange had been surrounded by a group of people—a hearty mix of sycophants and secretly envious associates—and Tony, well, Tony and Steve had both been invited to the party, but not only had they been in the midst of another fight (which they’d each took effort to conceal), they also had been constantly approached by other attendees. Tony had intended to introduce himself to Strange, as would be polite since Strange was the host, but, in spite of his suppressants, about an hour into the party his heat came, and, ultimately, it got so bad that he had to go home early. It was only thanks to his quick thinking that he was able to leave without having his _compromised_ _state_ become known to the rest of people in the apartment. Steve, in his stead, had went to speak to Strange to give both his regards and apologies, lying that he had fallen ill.

Tony also remembered that, a while back (though, now that he thought about it, not anymore), he had come across images of Strange relatively frequently in articles about developments in medicine and science. Therefore, he knew quite well how the man looked like. Strange, while fiercely attractive, had a distinctive face; it was odd that it took so long for Tony to recognize him. Perhaps it was the facial hair he now had that made the task difficult, or maybe it was his outfit, which, while just as stylish and modern, was certainly not nearly as overly expensive as the clothes he had once worn were. Or, possibly, it was the wisdom in his eyes—the deepness and spiritual depth within his gaze that seemed to have been absent from it prior.

Strange looked at him evenly. “I suppose.” There was something uncharacteristically humble to his answer, especially considering that he had been known to be extremely proud about his talents in medicine. “And there’s no need to apologize. You were ill; you can’t be blamed for that—”

“Stephen?” a voice—loud and piercing—broke into the conversation, cutting him off. Tony turned to see that it was from a barista, who was in the possession of two drinks that were, presumably, Strange’s.

Strange straightened. “Ah, those are mine.” And with a well-mannered “Excuse me for a moment” to Tony and Peter, he strode towards the counter, where he briefly, but graciously, spoke to the barista. The barista seemed to be polite and friendly in turn, and, by the time Strange came back, he was holding two paper cups with the green Starbucks logo on them, one in each hand.

But then, Tony noticed something odd about the drinks that Strange was holding. The Caffè Americano, certainly meant for the man he had been with earlier, looked completely fine, but the other one seemed to be filled only with whipped cream. Was that for himself? Did Starbucks actually sell whipped cream in cups as drinks? More concerningly, people actually _purchased_ them?

But before Tony could say anything about it, Strange spoke first. “Well, I should be heading out, I suppose,” he said, the tone of his voice unreadable. At this, Tony felt a sudden, but strong, pang of disappointment—this would be their farewell then? Of course, he _could_ try to push for more time with him, and, being as charming as he was, he would possibly be able to convince him. But what reason did Tony have to do so? His _biology?_ Ridiculous. And what right did Tony have to take up more of Strange’s time than he already had? They were barely even acquaintances, for God’s sake, and the man likely had places to be—he wouldn’t appreciate being held back by some billionaire that he’d glanced at _once_ at some party. Tony couldn’t be selfish about this. He reprimanded himself once more, because, again, what was he _expecting?_ Strange then continued, “I hope you have a lovely—”

“We’re going out too!” Peter abruptly broke into the conversation, cutting Strange off. Tony turned to look at him, shocked by his sudden interruption, but Peter, oddly enough, had a determined look on his face as he continued, “The two of us are actually visiting Central Park together; we only took a quick detour to Starbucks. And I finished my hot chocolate anyway, so I think we’re done here. Right, Mr. Stark?”

There was something pleading in his eyes, a clear _please play along_ within them. Tony was admittedly a little weak to such a look when it came from Peter, and he was also quite curious as to what the kid was trying to do here. “Right,” he said slowly.

 _What are you planning?_ Tony gave Peter a suspicious glance, to which Peter brightly—and innocently—returned, his own expression reading, _nothing, Mr. Stark, just trust me._

Strange’s eyes widened in momentary surprise before they softened in an amused pleasure. “Fantastic. We can head out together then,” he said.

The easy acceptance was a bit surprising, in that, Tony really didn’t expect Strange to be the type that would be willing to stick by two people he hardly knew when he probably had other—and more important—things to do. This shock ebbed away relatively quickly, however, and it was overtaken by a remarkable surge of gladness and relief at the knowledge that he and Strange would not be parting ways so soon. He tried to tell himself that what he was feeling was simply omega instinct—only a base desire that he had no control over. These words, however, were not particularly convincing when juxtaposed with the passionate, overwhelming joy that was burning throughout his entire body—a joy caused by the simple knowledge that he would be able to remain at this alpha’s side for at least a little while longer.

Also, Tony was beginning to have a pretty good idea of what Peter’s intentions were. But it was hard to feel ungrateful when, as the three of them walked towards the door, Strange’s arm brushed against his. Tony wanted to curse himself at the _dizziness_ that surged to his head from the sensation of it. Strange’s strides were long and smooth, and he was so, so _tall_. Levi very excitedly trotted at the other side of his owner, hungrily eying the cups in his hands. Tony barely noticed it when Peter tossed his own empty paper cup into some bin to be recycled.

“Didn’t you have a… friend?” Tony asked, trying—and failing—to get a proper hold of his rationality again, which seemed to have cruelly betrayed and abandoned him on this battlefield where all odds seemed to be stacked against him. “Aren’t you going to meet up with him?”

“A friend?” Strange briefly looked confused, before realization flooded into his gaze. “Ah. Him. No. He’s not really a _friend_. At least not in the traditional sense.” After a brief pause: “I suppose that you could call him my colleague.”

Tony was curious at this, but before he could properly respond, they had already reached the exit. Strange, after setting one of his drinks down on a nearby table to free his hand, politely held the door open for both Tony and Peter. The gesture was oddly touching, and it made something distinctly pleasant swell in Tony’s abdomen.

“Thank you,” he said, which Peter promptly echoed. Strange only gave them a small smile in response.

Outside, the early autumn air was pleasant. The sunshine was lovely and warm but not overbearingly so. Peter was right, it _was_ good weather for a walk outdoors. Tony could still see Central Park in the near-distance.

Strange stepped to the side as to not be a bother or an inconvenience to other people on the sidewalk. At Peter pulling imperceptibly at his sleeve (Tony shot him a glare; Peter only gave him a grin in response), they joined him. And Strange, upon noticing his company, began, “I need to send Wong, the colleague I mentioned, a text. If it's an inconvenience, you really do not have to wait here wi—”

“I have a school break right now, so it’s all good,” Peter said cheerfully, leaning casually against the store that they were standing next to which, thankfully, did not have too many windows. “We were just gonna have a relaxing walk through Central Park anyway, so no time commitments or tight schedules on our end.”

“Alright,” Strange said, a smile curling at his lips. “If you insist.”

The dog immediately began to growl again, impatient, and Strange gave him a firm, “ _Levi, stop”_ that did, surprisingly or not, quiet him.

“So, your colleague, is he, like, a doctor too?” Peter asked as Strange, who put one of the drinks (the Caffè Americano) on a small ledge protruding from the nearby store and slid out his phone.

“No, he’s a librarian.” Strange said distractedly, typing something into the device he held in one hand. “Met him in Kathmandu, actually.”

“Kathmandu, Nepal?” Peter asked.

“The one and only.”

“I’m a bit surprised that you have colleagues,” Tony commented casually. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

“I’m a doctor.” Strange spoke slowly, as though the point he was trying to make was an extremely obvious one. Tony wanted to roll his eyes.

“Yes, you are,” Tony said, speaking just as slowly in turn. Judging from the way Strange looked up from the phone to lock gazes with him, his eyes gleaming in amusement, he knew what he was doing and perhaps even _liked_ it. “But, but from what I’ve heard about you, the only colleagues I can see you acknowledging are the most elite in the medical field. And even then, I’d imagine you seeing them as rivals.”

“Oh?” Strange’s lips raised into smirk. At the sight, Tony could practically _hear_ the pounding of his heart quicken. Strange tucked the cellphone away, presumably having finished his task. “And what _have_ you heard about me?”

“That you’re a brilliant doctor,” Tony said, meeting his eyes unwaveringly in spite of how Strange’s intense gaze made something hot burn at his core. “Though I didn’t need to be told that; it’s already very much evident from your achievements in medicine.”

“Why, thank you.” The deep timbre of his voice was smooth and velvety. The sound of it alone caused a shiver to run down Tony’s spine.

“But the rest are more in regards to your character, rather than your talents.”

“Ah.” Strange nodded, as though in understanding. “If they had been about my character, they surely must have been negative. Then, allow me to guess—you’ve been told that I’m an arrogant, materialistic, narcissistic egomaniac?”

Tony smirked. “Funnily enough, they used those same exact words and in that same exact order. Wow. I’m impressed. Are you a wizard?”

“No, I’m not a wizard. And, once, those adjectives fitted me _very_ well,” Stephen said. “Not so much anymore, at least I hope. Though _apparently_ I can still be an arrogant prick—some things never change, I suppose.” Then, after a moment of consideration, he said, “Now that we’re on this subject, I think should _also_ tell you that I’m not the elite doctor that I used to be. I do a lot of work in the ER now; I’m a neurosurgeon who is very often on call.”

Tony almost gasped. Doctor Stephen Strange, the man he had once been told was a relentless and uncompromising asshole, working in the _ER?_ What the fuck?

“Got demoted?” Tony asked bluntly.

Strange had a smile on his face, but it wasn’t a particularly bitter or regretful one. “It’s a long story.”

Levi then let out an impatient bark. Strange sighed. “Fine,” he said. “You can have your treat now.”

Tony took a larger sip of his latte, which was noticeably less hot than before. He almost choked on it, however, when he saw Strange kneel down on one knee, on the sidewalk, in front of his canine.

Levi—now face-to-face with his owner—immediately started wagging his tail excitedly, jaw slightly agape allowing a pink tongue to stick out.

“Alright, this is for you,” Strange muttered, affectionate smile on his face. He held the paper cup out to his pet which, to Tony’s amazement, immediately stuck his muzzle into it and began to lick at the contents inside—the whipped cream—as though he hadn’t eaten in days.

Tony could feel his face heat up because, holy shit, this was adorable. He had always found gorgeous alphas being openly loving with their canine friends to be legitimately cute to him. And Strange was _very_ gorgeous. His fond expression was lighting up his entire face, and the way he was posed caused his clothes to pull tighter at his body in all the right places.

“I don’t remember you having a dog either,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Met him in an adoption center not too long ago, incidentally,” Strange said, his slim lips curled into a smile, eyes still affectionately on his canine friend. “The staff told me how indifferent, snobbish, and fickle he was towards all the other potential adopters, hence why nobody actually took him home. But once I came in—well, they told me they had never seen his tail wag so much. I told them that I’d think about it, that I’d come back the next day. But when I was about to leave, he wouldn’t stop barking and whining. He was quite literally trying to dig a hole out of his cage to be with me. And, long story short, an hour later, he was making himself home at my place. So, here we are.”

“What breed is he?” Peter asked, gesturing towards the dog. “Levi, I mean.”

“He’s an Irish Setter.”

Peter looked at Levi longingly. “Can I pet—”

“I advise you not to, especially not when he’s eating,” Strange said. “He’s not very fond of being touched by strangers.”

“Heh. _Strange_ rs. Great name, by the way. Is it _really_ your—”

Strange suddenly looked quite exhausted. Evidently, he had gotten asked this question quite a lot. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Tony couldn’t help himself from smiling, amused. Then, looking at the cup Strange was holding out to Levi, he said, “So you got your dog a…”

“Puppuccino,” Strange said. He frowned when he realized how messy the dog’s snout was becoming from all the whipped cream—white clumps of it stuck everywhere in his glossy red fur. “It’s the reason why I came here.”

“You came for a… Puppuccino.” Oddly enough, the thought that Strange would come to Starbucks to get a treat for his dog was quite… _sweet_.

“Yup. Chr—someone I know convinced me to get one for him a while back, and ever since, he became addicted. If he hadn’t, I would never step foot in there.”

“Not a fan?” Tony asked. In spite of everything he witnessed from the man, something in him—the cynical side to him perhaps—already predicted Strange’s reasoning, that Starbucks was simply not high-end enough for him—

“I don’t like coffee,” Strange said simply. “I prefer tea.”

 _Oh._ Tony blinked.

“There’s tea there too,” Peter pointed out.

“I know. But I prefer making it myself.”

It was then that a curt, loud voice came from the far end of the street, saying: “ _Stephen!”_ Tony turned around to see that it was Wong, who was walking quickly towards them from around the corner. Despite everything he knew of him, despite how logically certain he was that Wong was not a threat (a _threat?_ To _what?_ ), something within Tony bristled at the sight of the approaching man.

“You weren’t answering my texts!” Strange said, turning his head around to look at Wong, appearing quite irritated.

“I was making a call. Let’s go.”

“He’s almost done,” Strange snapped at him, gesturing to Levi who was still slurping up the whipped cream.

“Have him eat it _later_.”

It was then, fortunately, that the dog finished—and Tony knew when it happened because he heard the rasping noise of his tongue against the paper of the cup rather than the sound of him licking up whipped cream. Strange pulled it away. Immediately, the dog growled. “You _finished_ it,” Strange said sternly, keeping the cup out of Levi’s reach and standing up. The dog looked grumpy, but Strange didn’t give in.

“See? _Patience_ , Wong.”

“Says one of the most impatient men I’ve ever met.” Wong looked amused. Then, he narrowed his eyes. “Where’s my drink?”

Strange blinked. “Oh. Right.” He turned around to take hold of the Caffè Americano, which was still sitting on the ledge. He then handed it to Wong. “It’s probably cold by now, but that’s your fault for not standing on line, not mine.”

Wong took a sip from the drink. “Lukewarm,” was all he said.

Strange smiled. “Not my problem. Maybe we can find some coffee on the way that you can buy with your two hundred rupees.” Wong looked like he wanted to say something to that, but before he could, Strange turned to Peter and Tony, holding out his hand. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting you both.”

Peter shook it enthusiastically. Tony took his hand much more calmly, smoothly. Strange’s hand was elegant, all long and slender fingers. He could feel raised skin—there were scars, an extensive number of them. But the hand was steady in spite of whatever trauma it had faced. And when Tony raised his gaze to Strange’s, his heart stammered from where it sat in his chest because Strange’s eyes were _intense_ as they met his. Now that they stood face-to-face, in such close proximity with one another, their hands touching and gazes locked, Tony couldn’t stop the heat and the weird sensation of butterflies fluttering in his stomach. The only coherent thought that could come to his mind in this moment was that Strange _definitely_ was six feet tall.

“It was all mine,” Tony said evenly, despite how chaotic his insides seemed to be at the moment. The cogs within his sharp mind were still working in spite of the turmoil, however, and he said, shockingly levelly, after removing his hand from Strange’s, “Though, I _should_ tell you, the kid here—he’s a troublemaker. Takes lots of risks. Almost didn’t wear his seatbelt earlier until I told him to—”

“What? No I—” Peter sounded affronted.

“I _bet_ he doesn’t even wear a helmet on his head when he rides a bike,” Tony continued, ignoring Peter’s protest. “Do you, Peter?”

“I mean—”

“Exactly. He’s going to get into an accident someday, and, it would be _really_ nice if I had, on hand, the contact information of a man who knows how heads work when such a tragedy inevitably happens.”

At that, Strange’s face broke into an amused, knowing, but charmed grin.

“Oh, of course,” he said, in feigned seriousness. “Unfortunately, I don’t exactly have a business card on me at the moment. But I _might_ have a personal number that I could give you.”

“Hm. I _suppose_ your number will do,” Tony said, faking a humorless expression in turn. He took out his cellphone, and, after opening his ‘Contacts’ app, he handed over the device. Strange was clearly fighting back laughter as he took it, and he quickly typed something onto the screen before giving it back. And when Tony glanced at the face of his phone to skim over what he had written, he almost started laughing then and there.

“Really? ‘ _Doctor Strange’_? Not even going to use your first name?” Tony asked, unable to hide his grin any longer.

Strange eyed him in faux innocence. “I had been lead to believe that you wanted my contact for purely medicinal, professional purposes, Mr. Stark.”

“Of course, of course,” Tony said, now chuckling as he tucked his phone back into his pocket.

Peter had been watching the entire exchange with a mischievous gaze, but it was only shortly after Strange, Wong, and Levi all left that he playfully elbowed Tony, grinning.

“Nice job, Mr. Stark.”

Tony gave him a look that was meant to be stern but probably failed, judging by how pleased Peter seemed.

“Brat,” he said affectionately.

“A _brat_ who helped get you a number—”

Tony rolled his eyes, fond. The was a building giddiness—a giddiness that he hadn’t felt in a very long time—in his chest. He wasn’t used to the sensation. Peter must have somehow seen it in his expression, because he was looking quite proud of himself.

“Well, I guess we should go to Central Park now, right?” he said cheerfully, clearly in a _very_ good mood.

“I guess so,” Tony said. “We wasted a big chunk of time at that Starbucks—I hope you’re pleased.”

“I am,” Peter said sunnily. “And I don’t think we wasted our time at all, in fact.”

Tony tried his best to stop his lips from curling upwards into a genuine smile. He was feeling completely and utterly _blissful_ ; he was overwhelmed by so much happiness that he honestly didn’t really know what to do with it all. Tony wasn’t exactly sure what kind of expression was on his face by the time Happy came back with the car, but the look of surprise, relief, and affection on Happy’s said quite enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, let me thank everyone who gave supportive, loving (and, in some cases, emotional) comments to the previous chapter. I am so flattered by the incredible and positive reception that this fanfic has gotten so far, and your kind words are what kept me motivated to write. I cannot thank you enough. :) I hope that you enjoyed this new chapter as well, and please don't hesitate to leave a comment if you liked it; comments really do help! 
> 
> Secondly, this chapter turned out to be much, much longer than I had expected so… uh… sorry. 
> 
> Thirdly, Google tells me that Robert Downey Jr. is 5’ 9” and Benedict Cumberbatch is 6’ 0”. No matter how many boxes Disney and Marvel has RDJ stand on top of in their films, I will lovingly ignore the studios’ attempts to make Tony Stark and Stephen Strange have similar heights. 
> 
> Fourthly, I will be heading to Canada soon to visit my friend (and beta) EmberGlows for a few days. Consequently, the next update might be delayed a bit, but I will try my hardest to get a chapter out as soon as possible! :)


	3. Chapter 3

The high that Tony received from his meeting with Strange had lasted well into the next day.

It had been genuinely odd, especially for him. Tony wasn’t the type to be so affected by meeting new alphas, no matter how gorgeous or flirty or downright _incredible_ they were. He could be impressed, yes, and while he usually did take first meetings with a healthy amount of optimism, he did so with tempered emotions. After all, Tony was not a naive person, and he was very good at not getting invested. It was partially why he was able to have one night stands so easily, and also why it was often him, not the alpha, who left before morning came.

But, he also knew that when he _did_ get invested, he got _invested_.

So Tony had understood that what he had been feeling was quite dangerous, in that he was letting himself get attached way too quickly, too soon. But, despite the warning bells in his head ringing, alarming him of what could happen if he let his emotions get out of hand, they had been muted and quiet in comparison to the deafening sound of his heart, pounding within the cavity of his ribcage. His brain must not have been functioning properly, which surely had been the reason why it refused to relinquish its vice-like grasp on Strange. Indeed, it was almost as though the very image of the man had burned itself into its tissue, all so Tony could remember that fateful encounter in Starbucks yesterday vividly. Yes, all so he could remember the cold _vibrancy_ of Strange’s ice-colored eyes, the gentle curve of his lips when he smiled, the way the black strands of his hair hung handsomely and almost carelessly over his pale forehead…

 _Fuck._ Tony had wanted to slap himself. Except he couldn’t because he had all sorts of meetings to attend that morning, and he had doubted that it would be particularly professional or impressive to colleagues and business partners if one side of his face was reddened from the blow. Moreover, his desire to snap out of whatever state he was in, gain his footing, and stop being so goddamned _giddy_ over some alpha that he’d only just met… it had been more of a token struggle than anything else. Indeed, he had constantly told himself to be rational, but simultaneously, he had basked in the happiness that his debilitating emotions and fantasies gave him, privately and foolishly hoping that this bliss would not end so soon. Even then, even a day after that venture into Starbucks, he had still been smiling so widely that it was beginning to hurt. But he couldn’t stop. And he hadn’t been sure if he wanted to.

Still, what an influential force biology could be! Tony was almost impressed with it. A little terrified too, admittedly. Yet impressed nonetheless.

But of course, soberness came eventually. It wasn’t from disappointment though, because there was nothing to be disappointed by. Rather, the cause for Tony’s return to reason was simply the slow passing of time. Because eventually, as all highs did, this one gradually vanished, and Tony’s rational mind once again established dominance.

And now, in the afternoon, with his brain working properly once more, he was able to effectively think about what had happened, what was happening, and what _would_ happen. Tony understood very well what his own intentions were when it came to Strange. He was no fool — he knew what he was feeling for the man was less than platonic. And while he couldn’t be _entirely_ certain of Strange’s intentions since he wasn’t a mind-reader, he couldn’t help but doubt that his attraction was one-sided, judging by how that conversation went, how that conversation _ended_.

And it _should_ be reassuring that what he was feeling was possibly reciprocated. And yet, it only took mere seconds before his brief joy had been drowned out by an ice-cold splash of sharp pragmaticism, leaving the cogs in his brilliant mind to turn and consider and, well, _reflect_. And, in particular, reflect on things that left him feeling more queasy than happy with what had occurred.

Because, the fact remained that Tony never managed to have a single long-term relationship that worked out.

It almost did with Pepper. Their relationship began and ended long before he even met Steve for the first time. It was beautiful while it lasted; they even had discussed kids and marriage and everything. Then, it all went to shit when Tony ultimately chose his job over her (he didn’t want to; he didn’t even think he had to, but Pepper made him make the choice). And, that ended things miserably. Then, Steve. Steve was different from Pepper; while Pepper ached for stability to the point of feeling confining and claustrophobic to him, Steve was wild and hungry and youthful, wanting all and taking it because he could. For seven glorious, painful, beautiful, ugly years, they’d had a rollercoaster ride of a relationship. And Tony had loved it.

There were, of course, the bad sides to it. And the downright awful sides. Constant fights and tensions. When Bucky came, Tony’s insecurities reached their ultimate height—and for good reason, he now knew. But even before Bucky, there were problems, because things had gone completely south as everyone—except Tony and Steve, apparently—had come to realize.

Still, no matter how chaotic they were together, things never seemed strong enough to break the mess that was their relationship. At least not completely—not in a way that couldn’t be… well, not fixed, but ignored until the next fight inevitably happened.

But then, Steve finally gotten the lead role he’d wanted in an extremely successful sci-fi movie franchise. And it was around that time that he’d set his eyes on something else. Something that he didn’t even think seriously of in the beginning of their relationship, despite Tony’s warnings. But now that he was in his thirties and had reached a milestone in his career, it seemed that his priorities and goals had shifted. Drastically.

It had first happened when they all went to celebrate New Year’s Eve at Clint’s homestead with Clint, his two kids, and his very pregnant omega wife Laura. It was pretty much the American dream encapsulated in one single family, only lacking the dog and the white picket fence. And it was then and there, at that very homestead, that Tony had seen desire light up in Steve’s eyes. He’d realized that Steve wanted that. A family.

And in that moment, Tony had felt dread.

He was, currently, forty seven years old, and he was hardly younger then. No menopause, but he had been at that age, was _still_ at that age. It could happen at any time. But Steve had wanted a child. Tony feared it; he feared being a parent—he shuddered, recalling his own father, cold and calculating and never once saying he loved him during his youth—but he desired it as well, because he remembered his mother’s warmth and unconditional love. And so, after much thought, he had agreed to it.

Rather than doing things the traditional way, Steve wanted to try for a child first before marriage. Tony hadn’t realized it at the time, but now he understood that it was a smart move on Steve’s end, because imagine if they actually married and no kids were produced? Divorce was more irritating than a breakup, he supposed, and there was more bureaucracy to the process, which Steve hated. And so, upon both of them coming to the decision that they wanted children, they had tried—many times. Eventually, the doctor had suggested, sympathetically, that the reason behind their difficulty to conceive was perhaps Tony’s age. It wasn’t that he was infertile, of course, the doctor had rushed to say, but older age did make conceiving more difficult, though _perhaps_ with certain prescriptions—

Tony could not even meet Steve’s eyes at that point. He didn’t want to know what he would see there.

But ever since that appointment, things had became chilled and volatile at once. Steve was desperate for a child. Tony was desperate, well, mostly to not disappoint Steve and not ruin things with him. Prescribed drugs were taken. But nothing came out of them, and their relationship grew ice-cold in a way that it never had been before. There were, of course, other options—adoption, surrogacy (both traditional and gestational), IVF. But by the time it came to them actually considering these options, Bucky had reappeared and, at that point, made evident by Steve and Tony’s discussion in Steve’s apartment, having a family with Tony didn’t even matter to Steve anymore. And, consequently, Steve had stopped bringing up children altogether.

So when Steve had called Tony to go to Starbucks with that oddly formal text, Tony had already, in a way, knew what was happening.

Tony had believed that his inability to conceive was the primary reason behind Steve breaking up with him. And Steve seemed content to let him think that—even framing the breakup behind that explanation. And it likely was a significant reason, considering the importance Steve seemed to place on having children. But, as Steve said in their last encounter, Bucky was more important than having a family to him. He probably didn’t want to hurt Tony by saying the truth—that the main reason that he was leaving him was so that he could be with the man he _really_ loved.

Even _thinking_ about this worsened Tony’s mood even further. His persistent bitterness, which had evaporated due to his meeting with Strange, returned.

Tony leaned back against the headboard of his bed. He had warned Steve when they’d first met that he was much, _much_ older than him and that it was perhaps not the best idea for them to have romantic relations because of it. After all, Tony knew what he wanted to do with his life, but did Steve know what he wanted to do with _his_? Even all those years ago, he honestly doubted it. They had been at two different stages in their lives, and so, Tony had come to the conclusion that it probably wouldn’t work out.

But Steve had only been twenty-six years old at the time. He hadn’t liked to think in terms of the future. He was young, he’d preferred living in the moment, and he would continue to live in the moment until he realized what he _really_ wanted. And, as it turned out, what he wanted wasn’t possible with Tony. As Tony had predicted.

It would be different with Strange, surely. Strange was older. More mature and rational, at least ostensibly. Seemed to have his life planned out. Was charming and handsome to boot. But Tony didn’t really _know_ him, did he? What if this was just another waste of his time, a beginning to endless heartbreak and disappointment?

Tony didn’t know. But while he _did_ know that he couldn’t have a repeat of what had happened in his previous relationship—he couldn’t put himself through that again—he couldn’t let his past continue to control or hinder him. His desire to escape this was why he had ventured into that Starbucks in the first place, after all.

Moreover, Tony was the type who took the reins in a relationship. After meeting new alphas, sometimes the alphas texted him first, which was fine. But just as often, he made the first move. He wasn’t shy—he knew what he wanted, and he knew what his partners wanted. It was why he’d asked for Strange’s number rather than simply hoping that that Strange would take his. Tony didn’t play the demure omega, (unless his biology quite literally _made_ him one, but that’s a whole other story) and he didn’t intend to start now.

And so, leaning forward on the mattress and sliding his phone off the end table right next to his bed, he located Strange’s contact in the device. _‘Doctor Strange’_ it read, and the ridiculousness of the entire thing still made him smile. A bit of his former excitement rose back to his chest.

Jesus, was he thirteen years old or forty-seven? Signs were pointing to the former.

After a brief second of consideration and thought, he clicked ‘Send Message’ and, looking at the empty white screen that, hopefully, would be filled with a conversation soon enough, typed:

‘Hey, it’s Tony from Starbucks. How was your meeting with your colleague?’

Short and simple. After clicking ‘Send’, Tony tossed his phone to the other side of the mattress and laid down on the bed, closing his eyes and positioning his body so that it was curled near the wall. He wasn’t tired, but was feeling a little drowsy from the lunch he had eaten earlier.

Now, it was time to wait.

* * *

 

It took Strange about three hours to respond. Which was fine, because Tony used some of that time to properly research him. Which he honestly should have done before texting him, but whatever.

As it turned out, Strange was, indeed, as brilliant as Tony remembered him being. He had been an absolutely stellar neurosurgeon—one of the best in New York. But, unfortunately, it seemed that he had gotten into a car accident that severely damaged the nerves in his hands. Tony had remembered the raised skin on his hand and winced—that explained the scars, at least. While the tragedy, judging by the ample number of articles from reputable sources that his search on Google provided for him, seemed to be relatively well-documented, Tony didn’t remember reading about it. Though, now that he thought about it, the entire thing did seem to have a distant familiarity to him (perhaps he’d heard about it somewhere), but, evidently, it wasn’t something that caught his interest for very long. Unfortunately, nerve damage so severe made it impossible for Strange to remain a surgeon, and it had led to him losing his career and prestige. Tony couldn’t help but feel sympathetic—no matter how much of an asshole Strange apparently had been, nobody deserved to have all of that torn away from them.

Interestingly enough though, Tony couldn’t find anything on Strange’s current situation. And, by current situation, he didn’t mean Strange _being_ a neurosurgeon—looking him up basically confirmed that what he had told Tony regarding his career was genuine. Though, with a small hiccup—it seemed that Strange _did_ have his own clinic, which left him wondering why he had mentioned his work in the ER rather than his small business the other day. Tony was aware that neurosurgeons—even those with their own private practice—often were called to the emergency room for, well, emergencies, but the phrasing was still a bit odd. Moreover, Tony was more interested as to _how_ Strange became a neurosurgeon again. He didn’t fully know the extent of the nerve damage, but from what he read, it sounded quite bad. Bad enough for Strange to be unable to operate. But, Tony remembered distinctly that he had a very steady grip when they had shaken hands. He must have healed quite well from the torn ligaments and nerve damage, which was impressive, to say the least.

And while in theory, Tony, with the amount of influence he had, _could_ have his team do some digging and find practically everything possible on Strange down to the very hospital he was born in, he decided against it. Strange was a man he was attracted to, not a wanted criminal or a potential employee. Investigating him so thoroughly felt like an invasion of privacy and a betrayal of trust, as ridiculous as it sounded. Because although he didn’t _know_ Strange, he didn’t feel good using such, well, perhaps not _underhanded_ exactly, but… _dubiously ethical_ methods to find out more about him than he was comfortable in letting him know. Though, after a few unsubtle nudges from Happy about his personal safety or whatever, Tony did concede to having it be checked if Strange had a criminal record or not (he didn’t).

Anyway, by the end of his Google search, Tony felt as though he was left with more questions than answers from all the articles he read, but he was pretty much okay with that. If he and Strange got close enough, Tony would most likely find these answers on Strange’s terms eventually anyway.

Besides, he liked a little mystery sometimes.

After finishing his research, Tony checked his phone—no response yet, but it’d only been an hour—and began to work on his tech. He had more than a little to do—hanging out with Peter had been fun, but the day spent at Central Park did mean he had quite a bit to catch up on in terms of his job. It was about two hours into his work, with Tony nose-deep in blueprints, that his phone vibrated right beside him on the desk. Immediately, his hyper-focused concentration cracked and his heart almost jumped out of his chest. The speed at which he snatched the device from the smooth surface of the table was a bit embarrassing, but he was the only one to see it so, oh well. He then lifted the phone so that he could clearly see the lit-up face of the device, and he found, spread across the screen:

‘Doctor Strange: Hello. It went well. How was Central Park?’

Not bad, not bad. A little formal, grammatically correct with all the right punctuation. But he asked a question, which meant he wanted the conversation to continue. A good sign, to be sure.

Tony weighed between responding immediately and waiting a few minutes, and chose the latter. He couldn’t look too desperate, after all. Strange took three hours to respond; he could surely wait three minutes.

Concentration lost, Tony stepped away from the blueprints. He could work on those later; he wouldn’t be able to actually focus now anyway. Besides, he would be flying over to Malibu tomorrow evening where his preferred workshop was. He would be able to do things much more efficiently there.

Decision made, he put his phone down and began to clean up his workplace. Tony alternated between doing so extremely quickly—his eagerness to talk to Strange was evidently at play here—and slowly, so that there was a decent amount of time between Strange’s text and his reply to it. After putting everything away, he settled on a nearby chair. He was feeling oddly nervous. An anxious energy brimmed throughout his body, leaving him a little on edge. But there was a soft feeling beneath it, a comforting mix of hesitant hope and joy that made his chest feel warm.

It took only a few seconds of silent mental preparation for him to take out his phone again. Reading twice, _thrice_ , over Strange’s text to him, he quietly formulated a response in his head. Then, he typed:

‘It was fun. We had ice-cream. :) Was your dog satiated by his’ and Tony had to quickly Google the... drink (if it could be called that) so that he spelled it correctly, ‘Puppuccino?’

He sent the message. Somehow, doing so made an unusual tension leave his shoulders. Damn, he really _was_ affected by Strange, wasn’t he? It was a tad bit embarrassing, but again — nobody knew but him. And he intended to keep it that way. Tony glanced at the time between his text and Strange’s. Four minutes — not too bad. Though, to his surprise, Strange’s response came almost instantaneously. His phone vibrated in his hands, and Tony had nearly dropped the device from shock alone. Still, his focus immediately honed in on the screen, or, more specifically, the _words_ on the screen.

Strange’s reply was simple, but effective.

‘Levi? He’s never satiated. Never.’

Tony couldn't help but crack a grin at that. His fingers were moving before he even properly thought of a response in his head, but the words came to him so smoothly, so naturally, that he didn’t even bother reading what he had written before he sent it.

‘So you’ve mentioned. How often do you take him to Starbucks?’

‘I’m very busy, so not too often. Maybe once a week or every two weeks?’

‘Less than the average New Yorker probably, but still not too bad.’

‘Probably. :-)’ A smiley face! Tony wanted to laugh. So the man didn’t _always_ text like he’s writing a business email. But… with a nose? What kind of psychopath used smiley faces with _noses?_ Perhaps Tony should have his employees look again at that criminal record…

But before he could reply, only seconds after, Strange sent another message—a double text! ‘How’s Peter? Any head injuries yet?’

He remembered Peter’s name, which was nice. ‘Nope. But I’m just messaging you preemptively. He’s going to get one soon, I can sense it. Might as well establish a business connection so when it happens, we are on good terms.’ After a moment of thought, Tony tacked on a ‘:)’ at the end. Perhaps Strange would see it and learn from his mistake. Perhaps he’s redeemable.

‘Of course. Does he get head injuries often?’

‘Define “often”.’

‘Often enough for you to be establishing a “business connection” with a neurosurgeon? :~)’

Tony almost choked on his own saliva. This was no mere psychopath he was dealing with. This was an absolute _lunatic_. What man… what sane man with even _anything_ that resembled a sound mind would use a _tilde_ in his goddamn smiley face? What violent hatred, what absolute contempt for all that was sacred in the world, would prompt such an action? After all, this took _effort_. Strange not only had to go to his numeric keyboard (where the dash ominously sat) for this, he had to go to the numeric keyboard and _then_ press the shift key to get to that tilde.

A complete and utter madman. Tony would have to tread carefully with him.

Still, he typed, not even bothering to fight the enormous smile spreading across his face: ‘Then definitely yes.’

‘Fantastic. I like doing business with people with foresight.’

‘Well, foresight is something I have plenty of, so you’re in luck, Doc.’

‘We’ll see about that, Nostradamus.’

Tony smirked. He typed: ‘You flatter me!’ He then crossed his legs, leaning back against his seat. ‘And how was your day today? Had work?’

‘Very, very busy. And when am I not working is the better question. I have practically been in the operating room since 6 this morning. I am on call today too, which is demanding, to say the least.’

‘Wow.’ Tony glanced at the time—8:23 PM. ‘Are you home now?’

‘I am home now, yes. Got back not long ago.’

Tony winced in sympathy. ‘Is it stressful? It sounds tough.’

Strange’s response was immediate. ‘It’s pretty high-stress and demanding, yes. Which is why it’s not the perfect career for everybody. But, personally, I love it. I’m a workaholic, and the brain fascinates me. :-)’

Okay, Strange was still using noses in his smiley faces, but at least it was a dash this time around. Evil, yes, but it was a lesser evil. Tony could take it—he’d taken worse. Still, though… Strange’s on thin fucking ice.

‘That’s good. What do you like most about being a neurosurgeon?’

‘It’s a difficult job that requires a lot of focus, but I like the challenge. Most of all, I can help people and save lives.’

Well, that was… nice. Tony already imagined Strange to be a brilliant, ambitious man, so the first sentence wasn’t too surprising. But, he still found himself a little startled by his ostensible selflessness. Because, in spite of how sweet he had been acting with him, Tony couldn’t help but recall the negative things that others have said of him and his character. Of course, Tony would take those words with a healthy dose of skepticism—he hadn’t witnessed anything that was an obvious red flag from Strange. At least not yet. But it would be foolish of him to disregard such gossip altogether. After all, Strange himself had admitted to there being truth in what was said of him, though he had claimed that he’d changed. And Tony could believe that. He knew, first-hand, what a propensity people had for self-growth and how much people _could_ transform into better versions of themselves. But he couldn’t accept Strange’s statement without question so quickly—he didn’t know the man well enough to do so, after all.

Still, Tony typed out: ‘Those are very good reasons. :)’

‘Thank you. And how is your work? Your career must be no easy feat either.’

‘Ha. It’s definitely not. Lots of business meetings (often boring), and lots of science and engineering (not so boring). I’m heading to Malibu tomorrow evening to do the latter.’

‘That sounds interesting! You must really like being an engineer. And Malibu? I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard it’s lovely.’

‘I do. Before you replied to my text, I was working on tech. And it is - the beaches are fantastic.’

Strange’s reply came a little slower this time. ‘I hope I’m not distracting you from your work.’

A small white lie wouldn’t hurt, would it? ‘Nah. I was just about done. Are you finished with work?’

‘Technically no. I’m on an emergency on-call shift, so I doubt I will be able to rest anytime soon.

‘Wow. That’s seriously admirable. You’re dedicated. Do you have any days off?’

‘Well, I have my own clinic, so I have (for the most part) control over my schedule. Yes, I do a lot of this to myself, so don’t feel too much sympathy for me. I spend many of my nights (and many of my days) in the ER, hence why I told you I do a lot of work there. But I try to keep Sundays free. And Wednesdays.’

And Wednesday—yesterday—was the day that Tony first met him. Well, this at least somewhat answered his question as to why Strange mentioned the ER rather than his private practice the other day—it sounded as though the place was his second home! Still, Tony couldn’t help but think there was something more than that, but he chose not to pry.

‘Try, you say? It doesn’t always work out?’

‘I have a close relationship with a physician at the ER I work at. If no other neurosurgeons are making themselves available that day (an understandable but worrying trend that’s been happening as of late… something I admit I once, in a way, contributed to), I will often help with consultations and head there in person. Even though I’m not on-call those days.’

Then, a second text, almost as an afterthought: ‘Also, conferences.’

Well that just might have pretty much answered his question about Strange’s odd wording regarding his career. Any reservations he had left (which there were not many of to begin with) were mostly gone. ‘That’s very selfless of you. I’m sure your physician friend appreciates it. Do you think you’ll have a conference this Sunday?’

Strange’s response came a little slowly this time. But it came all the same. ‘I don’t believe I do.’

Tony smirked. Time to move in for the kill.

‘So you’re free then?’

‘I might just be. Why do you ask? :~)’

God. This man. Tony felt laughter bubble up in his throat.

‘Well, I’ll be back from Malibu around noon on Sunday. So if you’re free in the evening, I would love to have our first consultation.’

‘And where would you like to have this, “consultation”?’

Ooh, those quotation marks. Evidently, Strange knew what was actually going on here, which, while being no surprise, was still excellent all the same. Confirmation that they were both on the same page was never a bad thing, after all.

‘I know a French restaurant in Upper East Side with some great food. Though, if you don’t mind, there is a dress code - jacket and tie, I’m sure you know the drill.’

Strange didn’t reply instantaneously. In fact, minutes passed with Tony receiving only silence. It was a little unusual, since he seemed to be relatively swift with his texts so far, discounting that one three hour wait period which was likely the result of his busy work schedule. Tony couldn’t help but wonder, _has something come up?_ When Strange did finally respond, however, he seemed a little off.

‘I certainly do know. And I don’t mean any offense by what I am about to say, but, I don’t go to those sorts of places anymore. At least, not if I can help it.’

Ah, alright. Not one for fancy dinners, then? A bit odd, but every man had his own reasons. After a moment of thought, Tony typed in a diplomatic ‘None taken & that’s fine. It can get a bit stuffy there anyway. Do you have any restaurants that you want to go to?’

It took about one minute for Strange to respond to that. ‘I do know a place. Do you like Korean?’

It wasn’t his _favorite_ kind of cuisine exactly, a fact he learned when some business partners in Seoul introduced him to it. But he was willing to give it another go. ‘Sure. Where is it?’

‘Koreatown. I’ll send you the address. No dress code required.’

Tony smiled. He could work with that. ‘What time?’

‘Does 8PM work for you?’

Tony briefly moved to a different app on his phone to check his schedule that day. He just wanted to make sure that he was available that time—which he was quite certain he was, but there was no harm in double checking. After finding that he was indeed free, he texted, ‘Works perfect with me.’

‘Great. We meet at 8PM on Sunday then.’

And Tony, feeling suddenly quite mischievous and flirty, replied: ‘It’s a date.’

Then, ‘*consultation’

Finally, ‘Sorry, autocorrect ;)’

Strange’s response came soon enough. ‘While I do wonder how any misspelling of ‘consultation’ could have led to ‘date’, I’m certain it was an honest mistake. Apology accepted, Mr. Stark.’

Tony, who was now grinning very widely, sent back: ‘What can I say? I make the impossible possible for a living.’

‘Hmmm… “make the impossible possible”, I like the sound of that. :-) Especially since I have learned, through experience, that very little is impossible.’

The text conversation went on a little like this before it eventually, as all good things did, came to an end. It ultimately tapered to a close when Strange had to leave because of an emergency coming up in his work.

Once it ended, Tony slid his phone back into his pocket and leaned against the back of his seat, feeling quite victorious and happy with himself and how things went. It was a great fucking start if he did say so himself.

* * *

 

Malibu was fantastic, as usual. When he arrived there Friday about thirty minutes before ten (in Californian time, of course—the flight itself was about five or six hours long), it was much too dark for him to properly appreciate the weather, though he did like the chilled night air against his skin. It smelt strongly of the sea, a scent he found nostalgic. It vaguely reminded him of summer days with his mother at Coney Island.

But it _was_ sunny all of Saturday. Tony couldn’t enjoy it too much since he was in his workshop most of the time, but he did make sure to experience a bit of the nice weather. And while it wasn’t warm enough to take a dip in the beach—it was in the 70s—he did take a scenic walk along the shoreline after a delicious seafood dinner.

He, fortunately, managed to get a lot of work done, and he successfully caught up with all that he needed to do. Strange didn’t text him at all, which was more than a little disappointing, but then again, he was a busy person. He likely didn’t have time for it. Also, they had only just met, and they were still practically strangers at this point. And fortunately, by the time Tony had to leave _very_ early Sunday morning, he was beginning to feel a bit excited for the date that he and Strange had planned.

Right before boarding his private jet, at about 3AM, he sent a quick message to Strange: ‘Good morning. I’m heading to New York soon. I can’t wait to see you later.’

Minutes later, Strange’s response came: ‘Good morning. Can’t wait to see you too. Have a safe flight.’

For a moment, Tony was genuinely startled by the swift reply. Then he quickly remembered that New York was three hours ahead of Malibu. _Of course._ He reprimanded himself for being an idiot.

Still, 6AM wasn’t exactly late either, which meant that Strange was up quite early for his day off. Which, he supposed, wasn’t uncommon for working individuals who kept to a schedule every day. Still though—6AM was brutal.

Tony typed in a quick ‘Thanks :)’ before boarding. The jet was empty, save for, of course, himself and the staff (the pilot and a few others). The great thing about being rich enough to have his own private jet was that he had a _lot_ of legroom. No uncomfortably talkative seatmate. No unfortunate woman throwing up three seats back. No wailing babies. No—

Yeah, it was fucking great.

Tony spent most of his time on the jet going through the emails his assistant labelled for him to look at and reading the news about the economy, finance, and business. He was cooked a _fantastic_ brunch by his inflight chef, all comfort foods and sweet American goodness — buttermilk pancakes with strawberries, applewood smoked bacon, toast with butter, smoked salmon, and scrambled eggs. Luxurious, but not ostentatious. It would keep him suitably full until his date with Strange. And the thought of _that_ sent pleasure rushing up his spine.

Tony then checked the time and did quick calculations in his head. There were about eleven hours left before the date.

Eleven hours. Tony understood well how little that really was. His fingers tightened against the expensive fabric of his pants.

It would be a great date. He would make sure of it.

* * *

 

He landed at about thirty minutes after noon. Happy was there to greet him warmly, and Tony gave his friend a hug in turn.

The rest of his afternoon was spent mostly dealing with matters in his business—checking on things, managing but not micromanaging, talking to the appropriate people, all that. Then, as it began to approach 8PM, he took a pleasantly warm and long shower, did lots of digging into his wardrobe in search of the most appropriate attire,—there might be no dress code, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look nice—and he searched through his colognes for the right scent. All that stuff.

In the end, he chose a thin black sweater, tight against the hardness of his torso, a black blazer, and slightly loose-fitting dark gray pants. All very expensive, of course. His hair was slicked back—it looked good, but in that careless kind of way (even though it actually took quite a bit of care, but whatever).

“How’s the kid?” Tony asked Happy as he scanned down his form in the mirror. Looking good, looking good. His cologne—pine and cedar with a hint of roses, all meant to complement his natural omega scent—was fragrant and noticeable, but not overwhelming.

“Took ten texts for him to ask if you landed safely,” Happy said. “I said a single ‘yes’, and immediately, he sent nine more. I muted him from then on out, and I haven’t checked the messages he has sent me since.”

“Don’t be mean,” Tony chided distractedly as looked at his beard. It was stylish and well-trimmed of course, but he just wanted to ensure there was not a single strand of hair out of place. Which there wasn’t, as he found. Then, he asked, “What time is it?”

“7:45.”

“And the drive from here to the restaurant is about ten minutes, right?”

“About, yes.”

Tony nodded. He stepped away from the mirror, and then turned to him, smile on his face.

“Then, let’s go.”

* * *

 

He arrived to the restaurant at 7:56—not bad. The place looked nice on the outside—sleek and modern with a glass door entrance. Seemed a bit busy, but not too bad.

“Thanks,” Tony said to Happy as he left the car. He straightened out his blazer, and then he took in a deep breath. Finally, Tony slid out his phone and sent a text to Strange: ‘I’m here’.

The response was immediate. ‘Great, so am I. Come inside.’

And so, Tony did.

The restaurant was quite lovely. It had a very comfortable atmosphere, and there was something romantic in the vibrant golden lighting, the dark wooden furniture and floors, and the sensual ambience of the place. The chatter was moderately loud and endearing, and the food smelled pungent and delicious.

Immediately, a young Asian waitress (alpha, likely) approached him from where she had been standing behind a counter. Her hair—dyed dark brown, black roots showing—was tied up into a neat bun. A uniform—white dress shirt tucked into black pants—was fitted well to her slender frame, and a nametag at the top-left of her blouse read ‘Minnie’.

“Good evening, sir,” she said brightly. She was smiling politely. “How may I help you?”

He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but she didn’t look too starstruck. She didn’t seem to recognize him, which was fine—not everyone did. Besides, it’s better to be lowkey right now than to garner too much attention—after all, he only wanted one person’s attention tonight, and that person was Strange.

“Hello, Minnie—may I call you that?” Tony spoke smoothly and airily, in that way servers seemed to like—it was, after all, a sign that he wasn’t going to be one of the difficult customers that they unfortunately sometimes had to deal with.

The waitress looked a bit surprised, then her smile widened a bit. “You may.”

Letting charisma ooze into his voice, he said, “You see, I’m meeting someone at this very establishment—tall, dark, handsome, probably got a table for two—ah.”

His breath was momentarily taken away, because there, walking in the aisle between two rows of tables, was Strange. The sight alone effectively cut what he was going to say off, the words stuck in his throat. Tony must have forgotten how handsome he was, and his memory and imagination failed him in this regard. After all, both most surely had to have downplayed Strange’s attractiveness in his mind, because, no matter how beautiful Strange had been within the confines of his brain, this… well, _this_ _—_ the man himself, in the flesh—was superior to however he had conceptualized him.

Not to mention, the images of Strange online, while showing him to be gorgeous, did not do him justice either.

Strange was donning well-fitting black trousers and a dark navy blue v-neck sweater, not practically skin-tight like Tony’s was, but tight enough to show the leanness of his frame and the neat lines of his wiry body. His strides were long and smooth, and there was a confidence to every step he took. His black hair was a warm dark brown in the golden lighting, and a smirk was stretched across his face.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

The waitress looked momentarily confused by Tony suddenly going silent mid-sentence. Then, she followed his gaze to look at Strange, and, understanding flooding into her dark eyes, she said, “Ah.”

Tony opened his mouth to say something, anything, which was oddly hard. After all, as easily as each word in the English language came to his tongue with both charm and dry wit, now, he found himself speechless. But before he could make a single noise, he was enveloped in warmth, and a distinctly masculine aroma of wood and something smoky filled his nose. Still, he couldn’t help but notice an intrinsically _alpha_ scent beneath the cologne, and inhaling it as deeply as he did — allowing it to enter his lungs, travel through his bloodstream, fill him up with all that was _Strange_ _—_ made something else, deep within him, burn with a heady warmth that left his knees feeling a tad unsteady. He could feel gentle but sure hands at his back, and Tony distantly realized that he was being hugged. It took him some time to find the strength in his own muscles—which seemed to have vanished in an instant—to raise his arms to reciprocate the embrace. But before he could even come to terms with what was happening, Strange pulled away, leaving him yearning and cold.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Strange said, his deep voice warm and soft.

“So am I,” Tony said, sounding much more stable than he felt. “I hope you didn’t wait long?”

Strange smiled. “Only a few minutes. It’s no concern—we’re both early anyway.”

Then, the waitress (whom Tony had momentarily forgotten, swept away by, well, _Strange_ ) broke into the moment, asking suddenly, “This is the person you’re seated at your table with?”

It took a moment for Tony, who was still a little dazed, to realize that she was talking to Strange, not him. Fuck. It wasn’t even a minute into the goddamn date, and he was like this already? How the _hell_ would he make it through the evening?

“Yes, this is him.” Strange sounded amused.

“Give me a moment, please,” the waitress said. After Strange politely nodded, she quickly typed something into a computer on the counter. Tony could vaguely see rectangular shapes on the screen; a diagram of all the tables, perhaps? Then, she turned back to them, her lips parting as though she was intending to say something. But before she could, a different waiter, whom Tony hadn’t noticed before, tapped her on her shoulder from her right. She swivelled her head around to look at him, startled. The waiter said something in rapid-fire Korean to her. He looked more than a little panicked. He didn’t even spare Tony or Strange a single glance.

The waitress looked shocked, before glancing at Tony with wide eyes. She said something back to the waiter (Tony didn’t understand, unfortunately—the only language in the region he knew was Japanese), and then, turning to Strange and Tony, she said with a tight smile, taking a step back, “I will come for your orders shortly.”

“Thank you,” Strange said kindly.

The waiter was already stalking away, with the waitress briskly following him.

But before Tony could even think about what just happened, Strange had leaned in so close that Tony could smell the mint on his warm breath as he whispered, “The waiter knows who you are.”

Tony instinctively drew back, shocked. “What?”

Strange had an enigmatic smile on his face. “I’ll tell you when we sit down.” He stepped aside, leaving space for Tony to walk. At Tony’s puzzled expression, he tilted his head towards the tables. “You first. I’ll show you where our table is.”

“Alright,” Tony said. And he walked a bit down the aisle until Strange stopped behind him with a gentle touch to the shoulder, gesturing to the left to where, presumably, they were seated. The table was nice. It was intimate in the way it was designed, separated from the other tables on all sides except the one facing the aisle with elegant, wooden partitions. It wasn’t _technically_ private, but, in a way, it felt that it was. There were two sturdy chairs on each side of the table, and elegant menus sat on each end.

Tony began to walk towards one chair, and, as he was preparing to sit, he felt Strange move behind him.

“Allow me,” he said. Tony paused, and he then watched as Strange pulled the chair out for him.

“Thank you,” Tony said, flattered, as he sat down. Then, teasingly: “And they say chivalry is dead.”

And, as Strange settled on the seat across from him, he said, smiling, “Not with me.”

“A refreshing breath of fresh air, I must say.” Then, lowering his voice, he asked, “Anyway, what were you saying about the waiter? He recognized me?”

“The waitress didn’t, but he did. He’s nervous because he didn’t expect such a high-profile guest, and I imagine he’s having a private discussion with her about it right now.” Strange’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Congratulations. You are quite the celebrity, aren’t you?”

“Thanks, but…” Tony then leaned forward, drawling, “Although I am _humbly_ flattered that someone knows who I am in this establishment, I want, much more than that, to know who _you_ are.”

“Oh?” Strange raised an eyebrow. “And what would you like to know?”

“Well, firstly—you understand Korean?”

Strange chuckled. “I do, yes. Took it in university in tandem with Latin and Russian.”

“Three foreign languages! Not bad.” Tony smirked. “I know a few myself, incidentally. For example, I happen to know a bit of Russian as well—picked up some of it when I was travelling in Moscow. Can’t read it, but I can speak it.” Then, slyly: “Насколько ты хорош в русском?” _How good are you at Russian?_

Strange smirked. “Достаточно хорошо. На каких других языках ты говоришь?” _Good enough. What other languages do you speak?_

He spoke Russian with a bit of an American accent, but his pronunciation was still quite impressive. And the way the words delicately lilted in that deep timbre of his... it was undeniably attractive.

Tony said, now in English again, “I’m near fluent in Spanish, Italian, and Dari. I’m pretty good at Japanese, and I do know quite some French. Tried to learn Urdu once.”

“Urdu? How good at you at it?” Strange looked impressed.

“... Not very, let’s leave at it that.”

“Still, it’s a great list.” His eyes gleaming a vibrant green in the golden light of the restaurant, Strange said, “You are exceptional. Not many people are polyglots.”

“Thanks. Some of those languages I learned were for business, some for leisure.” Then, after a brief pause: “And you? You mentioned that you were taught Korean, Latin, and Russian in university—which, by itself, is remarkable. If you took three different languages at the same time, you must like learning them.”

Strange smiled. “Not exactly. I didn’t take three languages because I _appreciated_ them, unfortunately. When I was in university, I found little use in any subject that wasn’t in the maths or sciences.”

“Huh.” Tony tilted his head. “Then why take three?”

“Simply to prove I could, I suppose.” Strange then looked away, thoughtful.

Tony realized he wasn’t going to say anything more, and so, he said mildly, “Well, I’m glad that you’re putting the languages you learned to use now. Do you know any more than those three?”

“English, as it so happens.” There was a playful smirk on Strange’s face.

Tony laughed before saying, “You _know_ what I mean.”

“Well, I also learned some Spanish in junior high and high school, and it has kept with me,” Strange replied.

Tony grinned. “Eso es fantástico. ¡Tenemos mucho en común ya!” _That’s fantastic. We already have so much in common!_

Strange smiled. “Así parece.” _It seems so._ Then, in English, he said, “I’ve began to learn languages again recently.”

“Oh?” Tony leaned forward, interested. “Which ones?”

“Well, Mandarin is a work in progress.”

Tony knew bits and pieces of Chinese from many business trips to Beijing and Shanghai, but not nearly enough to be proficient in any sense of the word. He said, “It’s a difficult language, but a very rewarding one.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Strange said. “These days, I’ve also been studying Classical Sanskrit, Koine Greek, and Classical Arabic. When I get familiarized with those three, I intend to also start Pali and Biblical Hebrew.”

 _Oh?_ Tony raised an eyebrow. What all of those languages had in common was that they were, in some way, connected to a religion. Tony found himself interested, but before he could prod further, Strange said, opening his menu, “Anyway, we should decide what we want to order.”

Ah, right. “Good idea.” Tony hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. He picked it up and flipped through it to see a list of many dishes, the names of which were written in romanja, hangul, and hanja. The descriptions of each food were thankfully in English, with useful little pictures of the dishes themselves to the side. They were all quite unfamiliar to him. But Tony wasn’t a picky eater, so he was certain that he would find something he’d like.

“Do you mind sharing appetizers?” Tony asked. “Because this ‘mandoo’ looks delicious, but I don’t know if I can eat all of it.”

“Oh, mandoo? Good choice. I don’t mind at all—we can share,” Strange said pleasantly.

“They’re dumplings right?” Tony asked, squinting his eyes at the image and description.

“Yes. They’re very delicious.” With a smile, Strange said, “Might I also suggest ddukbokki? That is also a fantastic appetizer that I think you would like.” Then, curiously: _“Have_ you tried Korean cuisine before?”

“Once, in Seoul on a business trip,” Tony said, scanning the appetizers for ddukbokki—ah. Rice cakes, fish cakes, and boiled eggs in a sweet and spicy sauce? “Ddukbokki looks interesting. I’m down for trying it.”

The grin that spread across Strange’s face was a beautiful one. “Great. The serving is quite large, so we can share this appetizer too, if you’d like.”

“Sounds good to me.” Then, looking at the options for the entree, Tony asked, “Is ‘hot-stone bibimbap’ a decent dish, in your opinion?”

“It’s actually pretty popular here,” Strange said. “Not my first choice personally, but it’s quite delicious.” Then, curiously: “What food did you try in Korea?”

“Something with a lot of kimchi in it,” Tony said. With a wry smile: “Through that experience, I found out that I didn’t like kimchi very much.”

Strange nodded in understanding. “That’s unfortunate, though I admit that I’m not a big fan of kimchi either. I should mention then, that there is no kimchi in bibimbap, so I think that you might enjoy it.”

“Excellent.” Tony set his menu down, leaning back against his seat. “I think I know what I’m getting.”

Strange’s lips upturned into a smile. “And it’s very good that you do, because I can see the waitress coming over right now.”

He was right, because she did arrive shortly after, looking more than a little nervous and tense. Evidently, she was not used to serving a famous person. She asked, friendly but a little rigidly, “Would you two like any drinks?”

“What do you have?” Strange asked.

“We have soju, beer, and wine.”

Both Strange and the waitress’s eyes were then on Tony, expectant, evidently waiting for him to order first. Soju, he wasn’t a fan of. But, dear God, could it get you drunk! Tony was tempted, so tempted…

But then, he thought of the Russian vodka, and he blanched.

“Just water for me, thank you,” he said, a little weakly.

Strange noticed—he must have, judging by the slight frown on his face, the concern in his eyes. But, rather than saying anything about it, he turned back to the waitress, saying, “Then two waters is fine.” The waitress jotted it down on a small notepad in her hand.

“I believe that we are also ready to make our orders,” Strange said, though not before meeting Tony’s eyes, making certain that he was indeed prepared. Tony gave a small nod, before he then proceeded to order first. Strange followed soon after, and, once the waitress repeated their orders, Strange handed her their two menus with a smile. She left, and once again, Strange and Tony were alone.

“Are you alright?” Strange asked, his voice quiet against the blithe chatter in the restaurant.

“Uh, yeah,” Tony said, lie rolling off his tongue with ease. “Just not a big fan of soju.” He gave him a faux cocky smile. “Wild nights in Seoul have made certain of that. Plus, it tastes a bit too much like vodka for my taste.”

Strange did not seem convinced, though he did say, “And I thought you were there for business.”

“I was,” Tony said. “But you have no idea how much Koreans love drinking alcohol till you’re there.”

The conversation carried on like this until the drinks came—as well as a whole variety of small dishes. Tony was initially surprised by the display, but Strange explained to him, “It’s the banchan. Think of them as small side-dishes that you eat before consuming a larger meal.”

“Ah, right, I think I might have had something like this in Korea,” Tony said. It had been quite some years ago, but his memory tended to be quite sharp and reliable.

The banchan consisted of a variety of foods, like fish cakes, bean sprouts, fried fish, kimchi, sliced pickles, and squid. All of the dishes were clearly meant to be shared except the fried fish, since Strange and he each were given their own serving of that. They had finished most of the banchan, save for a few dishes that neither of them particularly enjoyed, and, by the time Tony took a few sips of his water—ice-cold and refreshing on his tongue, the waitress had arrived with the appetizers. The service was shockingly fast, and he was beginning to suspect that they were being treated as priorities by the restaurant staff because of his identity.

The mandoo were fine, but the ddukbokki was delicious. The rice cakes were long and chewy, and the spicy red sauce they were in was succulent.

“I knew you’d like the ddukbokki,” Strange said, once they finished both appetizers.

Tony was beginning to regret the large brunch he ate on his private jet. If they were going to eat this much before even the entrees came, how would he be able to finish his meal?

Still though, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease Strange a bit. “Oh? Did you now?” Tony leaned back against his chair, smirking in a way that was half lazy, half seductive. “Alright, wizard. If you can see through me that easily, then you can surely tell me what else I like?”

Strange’s eyes widened, stunned, but his surprise was only brief. Because, almost instantaneously, his gaze darkened, and his penetrating stare on Tony became heavier.

He tilted his head to the side, almost consideringly as though he was reflecting on a sudden and unexpected turn of events. Then, Strange said, a sensual tone to his voice, “Hmm. Call it a hunch, but, I imagine you might like your men tall, dark, and handsome.”

And Tony stilled, feeling red blossom across his face. Strange _heard_ that? That was…

He recovered from his shock very quickly though, as he had the tendency to do. While he could still feel the heat burning beneath his skin, he said with a confident grin, “What can I say? I guess it’s true. You _can_ read me like a book.”

Strange’s eyes gleamed, his lips curling upward, not into a smile exactly, but something confident, self-assured. “Might I tell you another… mmm, let’s say, a _suspicion_ , as it is, that I have about you? Or, perhaps, a premonition, an act of wizardry, as you have so kindly suggested of me twice.”

“Oh?” Tony tried to sound unaffected, but he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “Please. Go on.”

Strange then leaned forward, his eyes now a shade of glacial blue, piercing and intense. “Well, let’s first talk about the intentions behind this, ah, ‘consultation’, as you had called it, and establish that this isn’t about your intern at all. That may have been obvious, might have been heavily implied, but I don’t believe in shying from the truth, playing games, and chasing each other around as though we are schoolchildren in a playground. I am an impatient man—I don’t _do_ that, Stark.”

Tony found himself taken aback, his breath caught in his throat—he hadn’t expected this… whatever _this_ was. The atmosphere had become thicker, it seemed. Something had changed, making everything dizzyingly heady and sensual. Tony was left breathless by it, by this distinct sensation of _danger_ that the omega within him both feared and wanted. Rationally speaking, he was near certain that Strange was no threat, yet he couldn’t help but feel that he was in close proximity to a predator. An electric thrill ran up Tony’s spine at the thought.

But, back to the present. They were using last names now, apparently. Tony swallowed. “Then what _do_ you do, Strange?” he asked, locking gazes with him in a way that was almost daring— _defiant_ , even. This alone made the pupils in Strange’s eyes dilate.

“Well, what I would _like_ to do would not be appropriate to discuss over dinner _or_ during a first date,” Strange said, words both sweet and sultry at once, filled with all sorts of implications. “But I _can_ tell you that I am a man who knows what he wants and _whom_ he wants.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ,_ was all Tony could think.

“That’s just perfect, because I just happen to be the same.” Still, he maintained eye contact with Strange, his gaze unwavering and resolute.

“Same? That’s good.” Strange was smirking now. “So let us be clear with each other from this moment on. What do you see me as, Tony? A doctor, a neurosurgeon? Or, something else…?” His voice trailed off, his gaze dark and expectant.

“And if I told you that the answer to that question is not appropriate to discuss during a first date or over dinner,” Tony said, smiling provocatively. “What would you do?”

“Oh, Tony,” Strange said, his eyes—predatorial, acute— _hungry_. It made something in Tony shudder, the omega in him _want_. “What _wouldn’t_ I do?”

It wasn’t the first time that Tony had this kind of conversation with an alpha. _It wasn’t._ And yet, _this_ was doing all sorts of thing to him that made every other instance _pale_ in comparison. Strange was just so good at it, at staying in control, at knowing exactly what to do, knowing what what to _say_. He was so gentle and kind typically, so eloquent — still was, but this was… this was something more primal, more ravenous and animalistic. And Tony _loved_ it. Perhaps, for some omegas, this would be too much. Too overwhelming. Especially on a first date. But Tony… well, he _starved_ for this. Indeed, for him, many of his bed and romantic partners _weren’t_ enough.

He had the distinct feeling that this would not be an issue with Strange.

Tony asked, a little breathily, “You asked me what I see in you. Now it’s my turn to ask: what do you see, when you look at me?”

“What do I see…? That’s a loaded question,” Strange said languidly. It was insane, how much Tony wanted this man. He wanted to feel the strands of his black hair between his fingers. Wanted to feel his body, lean and hard, against his. Just wanted. _Wanted._ The alpha and the omega, this magnetic attraction between them, stronger between some, strongest between him and Strange because, dear God, he had never felt this before. Then, Strange leaned in even closer, and it felt as though the close proximity between them stole any oxygen that was left, because Tony could hardly breathe— “Well I can say one thing—” And then, his voice took on an amused tone. “—I can see, past your shoulder, the waitress with our meals coming over.”

The moment shattered. Tony pulled back, nerves completely frazzled. Strange was correct though—the waitress was indeed approaching, bringing with her a cart with various foods on top.

“Hello,” she said brightly, clearly in a much better mood now. “Your hot-stone bibimbap and bulgogi?”

“That’s ours, yes,” Strange said, looking completely unaffected, all charming and polite. Acting like a perfect gentleman, as though he hadn’t basically done practically every debauched deed short of actual sex just now.

After the waitress put their meals on the table, she asked, “Do you need anything else?”

Tony was still reeling. “No,” he said. He could feel Strange’s eyes on him, his gaze arrogant, knowing, and covetous. “That’s all we need.”

* * *

 

The bibimbap was decent, but in all honesty, Tony could hardly focus enough to taste it. They finished in relative silence, with Strange only bringing up small talk as though _that_ discussion never happened, and Tony was so drained of energy he could hardly mention it himself.

Strange paid for the whole meal without even allowing Tony to read, let alone _touch_ , the bill, and the two were given mints, which they each took. They sat and talked for a few minutes until the mints dissolved in their mouths, and once Tony took a few selfies with some of the waiters and waitresses after they, with both nervousness and hopeful excitement in their eyes, asked for pictures, they decided to head out before more of a commotion started. By the time they left, it was around 10PM.

The night was lovely, and there were no stars in the sky. It was dark, but nearby streets were lit up by fast-moving cars and yellow cabs that sped across the asphalt. The windows of stores and malls were still glowing with a blinding white, as was pretty much always the case in New York City. The sidewalk was quite narrow so he and Strange walked so closely together that he could feel the sleeve of his blazer brush against Strange’s arm. There was a silence between them, but it was a comfortable one.

“Where’s your car? I can walk you to it,” Strange said, once they left the busy street where all the Korean restaurants and stores that made up Manhattan’s Koreatown were clustered together. Right across the street, Tony could see the lush bushes and white glowing lights of Greeley Square Park.

“I’ll call it over,” Tony said. He met Strange’s eyes, which were gleaming beautifully against the bright lights of the vehicles racing down the street before him. “It’ll come in a few minutes—five or ten, maybe, depending on how far away it is.”

“Excellent,” Strange said. Then, a gentle smile tugging the corners of his lips, he said, “While you wait for your car to arrive, would you like to walk through the park with me?” He gestured to Greeley Square Park. “It’s small, but it’s nice at night.”

“Sure thing,” Tony said. He sent a quick text to Happy, telling him that he was ready to leave. He made certain to send his location to him as well. Tony then slid his phone back into his pocket, and the cars came to a halt in front of him. He and Strange walked across the street to where the park was. Their hands were close enough to touch, but neither he nor Strange made the move to take hold of the other’s palm.

The park was, indeed, not very big. Gray and black pigeons gently cooed and hungrily surrounded pieces of bread and other food left discarded on the ground near some tables and chairs. Little brown sparrows tried to dart forward and steal them from their larger avian competitors. Not many people were in the park, save for a few high school students playing games on their iPhones, laughing and talking animatedly as they did so. Slender trees, thick bushes, and gorgeous potted plants marked the broad pathway through the park.

“You’re right,” Tony said, breaking the silence. “It is very nice.”

Strange looked down at him warmly. “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “You’ve never come here before?”

“To this area? Definitely. To this park? I probably have, but not enough times to be familiar with it.” Tony paused by one of the the potted plants. It was almost taller than him, and certainly wider. Absentmindedly, he took hold one of the broad green leaves between his index finger and thumb and rubbed it, feeling its smooth texture.

Then, Tony asked, “How will you get home?”

“I have my own car parked a few blocks away,” Strange said. Then, softly: “I know I was somewhat forward with you in the restaurant.”

Ah, so he _was_ bringing that discussion up. That’s refreshing.

“Somewhat forward,” Tony echoed, an amused smile on his face. “That’s one way to put it.”

Strange laughed softly, but then said, in seriousness, “I can be, at times, arrogant and intense, especially when I believe that I know the correct way of doing things, which I have come to find… isn’t always the case. I have been keeping myself in check more, which is especially effective, because the people I associate myself with now don’t put up with my nonsense.” Then, wryly: “I hope I wasn’t too much. I’ve been told by a… trusted source… that I can be.”

At this, Tony chuckled. “Oh, _Stephen,”_ he purred, taking a step away from the plant and towards Strange. Strange watched him with an inscrutable expression. He wasn’t flinching or backing away, but he wasn’t moving closer either. “Are you kidding? I _loved_ that. And don’t worry. I wouldn’t put up with any of your nonsense either—nonsense which, I haven’t seen as of yet.”

Strange’s eyes darkened at that, darkened in a way that made a small thrill run up Tony’s spine.

“I am learning quickly how audacious you are. How _bold_ ,” Strange said, though not without admiration and something a little heavier in the tone of his baritone voice. “And I believe that I like that very much about you.”

Tony took another step towards him, so that they were only mere inches apart.

“Why, thank you,” Tony said. Dear _God,_ this man was beautiful. “Decisiveness is attractive, and I see that in you too.” Then, with a smirk: “You don’t have to be too gentle with me, I can take a little more than that.”

Strange’s lips lifted into a smile, self-satisfied and smug. They looked so soft in the bright white light of the nearby lamps, and Tony had the sudden urge to touch them. “Can you now?”

Tony slid his hands around the back of Strange’s neck, pressing close so that their torsos were touching. He had been right—Strange’s body was all wiry, sinewy, and hard against his. Warm, too.

“I can,” he said breathily, before slowly leaning his head forward and pressing his lips against Strange’s.

Tony hardly even knew that he was kissing him; hardly even thought about anything at all, really. He just _felt_. The kiss was a relatively mild one, but it was pleasurable nonetheless. Strange’s lips were soft and warm. He was gentle, but skilled—he knew exactly what to do and how to do it. Tony felt reciprocating hands across his waist, pulling him closer until they were pressed even tighter against each other than before.

Eventually, the kiss, which seemed to last minutes but likely only lasted seconds, ended. Once their lips parted, neither of them spoke a single because they didn’t _have_ to — their eyes boring into each other, intense and wanting and hungry, said enough. Besides, Tony didn’t know what _to_ say, in all honesty.

But the moment was then broken when Tony’s phone vibrated loudly in his pocket. Strange took that as a cue to release his hands from his waist and politely step away. Tony immediately yearned for his touch again, but he chose not to tell him that.

Strange gave him a kind smile. “That’s for you, I believe.”

Tony checked his phone—it was Happy, who was just around the corner. “It’s my car,” he said. “I should go.” He didn’t want to, though.

“You should.” Strange’s gaze on him was soft and tender. Then, with affection: “I hope that I see you again.”

“I hope so too,” Tony said, feeling something in his chest burn with a sweet warmth, a languid sentiment that made his heart quake.

* * *

 

When Tony got home, it was to a single text across his screen:

‘Doctor Strange: I hope you got home safely :~)’

A tilde. A fucking tilde. Tony wanted to laugh, but all he could feel was his lips stretching across his face into a jubilant, uncontrollable smile. It was impossible to force away, and he didn’t even try to.

“I see you that had a good time, sir,” was all that Happy had said to him in the car, though he didn’t specify what had given him that impression. Tony didn’t ask him to, though. Because he did have a good time. An _excellent_ time, even.

As he’d finished all that currently needed to be done for work in Malibu, he was able to go to bed quite early.

It took about an hour and a half of him rolling on his mattress, unable to sleep, for him to realize that during the date, he hadn’t thought of Steve even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve been quite busy these last few weeks. I had an excellent time in Canada, I returned home to some job interviews (which I fortunately have been hired as a result of), and I have been doing some intensive studying for a major exam coming up this week. Consequently, it’s been a little hard to write for leisure, but I’ve been trying. Thank you all so much for your patience and support. As always, please don’t hesitate to comment—comments help me a lot with motivation. <3
> 
> Let me quickly talk about the languages that both Tony and Stephen speak here. In the MCU, a deleted scene in _The Avengers_ reveals that Tony speaks Spanish, Italian, and Dari. Also, he speaks some French in _Iron Man 2_. In the comics, he (apparently) is able to speak Japanese, Russian, French, and some Middle Eastern languages (though not being good at Urdu). So, I’ve decided to have him have some familiarity with these languages. I haven’t seen any evidence of Strange being knowledgeable about any specific foreign language either in the MCU so far or (apparently) in the comics. Canonically in the MCU, we know that he has studied Classical Sanskrit, but that’s really it. Considering his diligence and ambition, however, I imagine that he could pick up languages quite well.
> 
> A big thanks to my friend for helping me with the Russian. Also, unlike Strange, the Spanish I learned from junior high and high school hasn’t kept with me well. So, I had to consult Google Translate for the Spanish bits. If you see any mistakes in what I wrote there, please let me know! <3
> 
> And finally, I hope you enjoy this chapter. ;~)

**Author's Note:**

> All kudos and comments are appreciated. 
> 
> If you want to check out my Tumblr, my URL is [menaraline.tumblr.com](https://menaraline.tumblr.com)!


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